Worth of a Duke

by K. J. Jackson

  “There you are.”

  The shout made both men look up, only to see Wynne in a full run coming down the path from the woods. She did not stop until she reached them, holding her side and panting. “I saw you come up the lawn, but you did not come into the castle.”

  Rowen thumbed over his shoulder. “Getting the horses settled.”

  “What happened?” She bent over to be at eye level with them, her eyes flickering between Rowen’s face and Luhaunt’s. She stood straight. “Wait. Hold your words.”

  She left them, disappearing into the stable. Rowen could hear fabric ripping and water sloshing. A few minutes passed before she came out of the stable, hauling a bucket full of water.

  She plopped it on the ground in front of the men and dipped what looked like a strip of white linen from her chemise into the water.

  Her eyes went back and forth between the two, her mouth grim. Decided, she went in front of Luhaunt, holding the wet cloth up. “Do you mind?”

  Luhaunt gave a quick sideways smirk to Rowen. “Not at all.”

  Wynne nodded, starting to dab on the long cut from Luhaunt’s left eye to his jaw.

  Rowen watched her fingers move across Luhaunt’s wound. A drip of blood dropped into his own eye from a cut lining his eyebrow. Jealousy pricked—it did not matter that Luhaunt was his friend and the guest—Wynne should not be touching another man like that.

  It only took a moment for her to start swaying. Rowen had to give her credit—she tried. But within seconds, she went pale and her eyes dropped closed.

  Rowen grabbed her elbow, pulling and spinning her to the bench between him and Luhaunt just before she passed out. She slumped onto Rowen’s chest, the cloth dropping from her fingers to the dirt. He wrapped his arm around her, propping up her limp body.

  Luhaunt gave him a questioning look over Wynne’s head.

  Rowen pointed to the blood dripping from his own eyebrow. “The blood.”

  Luhaunt nodded, picking up the cloth from the ground and dunking it in the bucket. He rang it out and tended to his own wound. “Will she be out long?”

  “I do not imagine so.” Rowen tilted her face up so he could see it. Still out cold. He settled her back onto his chest. “It has happened before, and it was just a few minutes.”

  “Why would she even bother getting near the blood if that is what happens?” Luhaunt asked as he cringed, his own rubbing on the cut sending fresh blood onto the cloth.

  “I imagine she feels responsible for our current states. She has an unusual sense of duty.”

  Wynne jerked upright, gasping. Confusion set on her face as she looked at Luhaunt, but disappeared once she saw Rowen had her. Her hand flew to her mouth. “I—I am mortified. Lord Luhaunt, forgive me.”

  “It is nothing, Miss Theaton.”

  She untangled herself from Rowen’s arm, but did not try to stand. “I am sorry. I just feel so horrible that you went to Tanloon and this…”

  Her gaze drifted to the red-stained cloth in Luhaunt’s hand, then snapped away to the dirt in front of her boots. She leaned forward, resting her forearms on her thighs. “That this is how you returned. I did not wish for harm to come to either of you, and I would not have allowed you to go had I known.”

  Rowen leaned forward to see Wynne’s face.

  Her hand went up, blocking him. “Do not come into my view, Rowe. I can barely look at Lord Luhaunt, and he is mostly clean. I truly cannot look at you, or I will be in blackness for the rest of the day.”

  Rowen moved back to lean against the stable wall. “You have not asked what we learned in Tanloon.”

  “I have been afraid to ask.”

  “We did not learn anything.”

  Wynne didn’t move, didn’t react.

  Rowen set his fingers lightly on her shoulder. At that, her head dropped in her hands. He could tell she was not crying, just trying to collect herself.

  Abruptly, she stood. “I have to get some fresh cloth for you…ones that are not bloody.”

  She started to walk into the stables, but then spun and changed direction, trudging away from them toward the path back to the castle.

  Rowen could see she was discombobulated, but walking a straight line, so he let her go. Better to not stop her, only to have her pass out from watching blood drip down his face.

  He and Luhaunt watched her in silence until she was out of view.

  “She is entrancing.”

  Rowen’s eyes did not leave the spot in the trees where Wynne disappeared. “No. She is not—not for you.”

  Luhaunt chuckled. “Point taken. And that saves me my next question.” He cocked an eyebrow at Rowen. “Unless there is the possibility when you are done with her?”

  Rowen’s head whipped to Luhaunt, glaring. “I do not plan on being done with Wynne.”

  “You are not saying?”

  “Yes.”

  “She is a commoner.” Luhaunt shook his head, his face incredulous as he dunked the cloth in the bucket.

  “As I was not but two years ago.” Rowen’s look went pointedly to his friend. “As you were five years ago. Have you forgotten your own past so quickly, Seb?”

  “But the lineage—”

  “Do not talk to me of lineage. You have embraced the aristocratic way of thinking far more fully than I thought you would, Seb.”

  “It has its finer points.” Luhaunt handed the rinsed cloth to Rowen.

  “Yes, and a lot of stale blood in the lines.” Rowen wiped the blood from his eye, dotting the cut on his eyebrow. “The peerage would do well to have new blood in its heirs.”

  “But you are not just talking about new blood, Rowe. You are talking about plopping an American—with no connection to this land—right into a dukedom. Lunacy—there is no argument for it. She is scandal in the making.”

  Rowen’s dagger glare deepened at Luhaunt. “You speak of things I could care less about, Seb. Let the old bats think she is a rich heiress. That should suffice the tongues.”

  Luhaunt sighed. “And you still do not know what happened to her—what happened after her mother was beaten—who that man was—he could have some claim on her.”

  “I highly doubt it. Wynne saw him and did not recognize him. And that mystery is exactly why I brought you to Tanloon, to see if answers could be found. I would prefer to deal with surprises connected to Wynne sooner, rather than later.”

  “But we found nothing except bruised ribs and bloody faces.” Luhaunt made a fist, looking at his cracked, bloody knuckles before he dunked them into the bucket. “Are you going to tell her about the drunk—what he said?”

  Rowen sighed. They had found the drunk that lived in the house next to Wynne’s, but he had been beyond foxed. “If he had made sense, maybe, but, ‘The town loses a whore it celebrates—but it loses a teat it has hell to pay.’ What the blast is that supposed to mean?”

  Luhaunt shrugged, checking his cleaned knuckles.

  “And I will not repeat such nonsense when the words about her mother would only hurt Wynne.”

  “For all of your cynicism, Rowe, you are surprisingly un-cynical about this woman.”

  “You mean the cynicism that managed to keep you alive on the continent?”

  Luhaunt shrugged good-naturedly. “That aside, it is something I have never seen in you—actual belief in another.”

  Rowen shook his head. “I do not know—I see…I see her…deep inside…who she is.”

  “What you see in her may be clouding your vision. Rowe, how the rest of the town reacted—all I am saying is, be careful.” Luhaunt leaned back on the wall. “There was something very wrong with that town, with those people—I understand being wary of strangers with questions, but that was beyond normal. One question and they practically ran us out of town on stakes.”

  “Yes, and that only convinces me more than ever that she truly does remember what happened to her and her mother in that house. But instead of an answer, it only raises more questions. Especially when there is not a tra
ce of Wynne’s life there.”

  Rowen wiped the wet cloth across his split lip, the motion stinging. “And Wynne does not have the sense to realize the danger she was in—is still in. I do not want to imagine what would have happened if she set foot into those taverns.”

  “So do not imagine it, my friend. And just make sure she does not visit that town ever again.” Luhaunt slapped his hand on Rowen’s shoulder. “But if you do change your mind about Miss Theaton—I may just have a go with her if you are not.”

  Rowen’s chuckle leaned more towards threat than laughter. “Prowl elsewhere, Seb. Although I do admire your taste. You always knew how to find the best horses, so why should women be any different? How is it you have not married yet—or gotten yourself trapped?”

  “My searching has not delivered for me yet.” Luhaunt shrugged. “I will know her when I see her—that has just not happened yet.”

  “Pure instinct?” Rowen stood, dropping the cloth into the bucket.

  “Pure instinct. Just like the horses. I will know.” Luhaunt joined Rowen and they started walking to the castle path. “And from what I have witnessed, my instincts tell me you should lock down Miss Theaton sooner rather than later. Her hands on me were short-lived—”

  “Are you trying to get another black eye?”

  Luhaunt smirked. “All I am saying is that a woman with hands as soft and gentle as that—who can also skin a squirrel—who is also an artist—they do not come more interesting than that.”

  Rowen shook his head, his eyes on the gravel. “Or as complicated.”

  ~~~

  Wynne had escaped directly into the painting room when she reached the castle. The duchess had intercepted her and requested Wynne dine with her, but Wynne could not stomach the thought of food.

  So instead, she had come into the room and gone through the motions of getting the paints and her brushes ready, but then had sat numbly, brush in her hand, staring at the rising moon for hours.

  The knock on the door made her jump, and she popped to her feet, dropping the brush before the door swung open.

  Rowen.

  Afraid to look, she forced her eyes to nudge upward to his face. The bloody cut above his left eye was now a thin scab. She said silent thanks. A scab she could look at. Free flowing blood, not as much.

  Rowen had another long scab across his right cheek, a bottom lip that was slightly puffy, and she could tell by the stiff way he moved into the room that his ribs were hurting him.

  Wynne frowned, still mortified at her earlier reaction at the stables. “Rowe, I apologize. Lord Luhaunt must think I am a goose. I made a spectacle of myself—I saw the injuries and I thought, at the least, I could help Lord Luhaunt.”

  Rowen stepped into the room, closing the door behind him. “Not me?”

  “You? Preposterous. No.” She waved the thought away. “I had no illusions about you—I already know I cannot see blood on you—especially not blood that I am the cause of.”

  She was surprised to see a slight smirk cross his face, but it disappeared quickly, somberness darkening his eyes. “I wanted to have news for you from Tanloon, Wynne. Something tangible. At least a lead to follow. But I have nothing. We only made it through two taverns with no luck before we were politely escorted from town.”

  “Politely escorted?” She shook her head. “I would have never let you go if I had known it was dangerous. I never suspected. When we lived there—I would not have guessed it of those people. I feel terrible that both of you suffered for my sake.”

  He shrugged. “We fared well enough for what we faced.”

  “Still…” She shook her head, turning from him. The moon was fat in the window now.

  Rowen stepped in front of her, blocking the window, the moonlight glowing behind his head. “Tell me you are not thinking of returning there yourself, Wynne.”

  Startled at his words, her head cocked to the side. “I am not stupid, Rowe. I saw how you and Lord Luhaunt came back. I am not arrogant enough to think I would fare better. To find answers you could not.”

  Relief crossed his face. “So you are accepting of not knowing what happened to your mother?”

  Accepting? Wynne focused on the word. Could she truly accept that her mother just disappeared—no body, no final resting place, no answers? She was not sure she could.

  Yet she had no plan. No next steps to take. She had remembered what had happened, but nothing had changed. Her life was in the exact spot it was before the memories.

  Wynne’s eyes dropped from his face, not answering his question.

  “What are you thinking, Wynne?”

  Her voice soft, she couldn’t look up at him. “That this is my punishment. Punishment for being weak—for leaving her.”

  His fingers went under her chin, lifting her head to him. “If you had not escaped, Wynne, you could very well be dead right now.”

  “Or I could be alive. She could be alive.”

  “Wynne—”

  She shook her head, cutting him off. “Would you have left your mother, Rowe?”

  “Not a fair question, Wynne.”

  “Why am I not to be held to the same standard as you, Rowe?” She sighed. “I know you do not understand this, but my grandfather would have expected so much more of me.” Her head dropped again, voice a whisper. “I expected so much more of me.”

  “Just tell me you can accept this, Wynne. Tell me you will lay this to rest.”

  “I do not know. I do not know what to think in this moment.” She looked up at him. “Can you stay? I need to paint, but I do not want to be alone, I—”

  “I will stay.”

  Grateful, she exhaled, turning and walking past the easel, settling herself to hide behind the canvas. She was fighting hard against breaking again, and Rowen was key to that. She needed him not to leave, yet she could not endure his eyes on her. His wondering of her, his trying to read what was in her mind.

  So she disappeared. Disappeared into her painting, into the world where she only had to create. Create and not think of things that could break her. Would break her.

  Two hours passed in silence, Wynne working, Rowen sitting patiently across the room from her, paper in his lap that he had not bothered to read.

  The moonlight moved across the room, and as late as it had gotten, she still didn’t want him to leave, was not ready to be left alone with her rambling thoughts when she knew she could not sleep.

  It was when her brush was filling in the shadows of Rowen’s neck, making her way down to the line of his collarbone, that her earlier avoidance had waned enough to look at him. Plus, she needed to see him in order to get the nuance of his collarbone right.

  Wynne leaned from behind the canvas, her eyes trained on the points where his white shirt met bare skin.

  “Why do you hate the duchess?” She asked the question without thought—merely to fill the room with something other than silence—and went back to the canvas, recording the gentle slope of the hard line of his collarbone.

  That particular question harbored the one thing she still could not place in Rowen—his hatred for the duchess. For all of his generosity, his kindness to Wynne, he continued to show none of that to the duchess.

  The one flaw—the one thing in Rowen that she was having a hard time coming to terms with. Had she never seen the two of them together, sniping at each other, Wynne wouldn’t even think Rowen capable of treating an older woman like the duchess with such disrespect.

  It took her a few minutes of painting to realize Rowen hadn’t answered her question.

  She scooted left to look at him.

  His face had changed from just a moment ago.

  Harder. Closed off.

  Not what she had intended. And she had thought they were past pretending that Rowen didn’t openly loathe the duchess.

  Before Wynne could retract her question, Rowen opened his mouth.

  “I think the better question may be why does the duchess hate me? Maybe she should answer that
for you. Life has brought both of us disappointments in how we wanted our destinies to unfold. And we have handled our disappointments very differently.”

  “In what way?” Wynne did not stop her painting.

  “The duchess’s way eats away at her.”

  “And your way does not eat away at you?”

  “I do not feel the need to try to destroy others to soothe myself. That is her particular way, and I have suffered the brunt of it since I was born.”

  Wynne went silent. The clip in his voice was just harsh enough that she realized she had to stop this particular discussion before Rowen stormed out on her.

  That was the last thing she wanted at the moment.

  Swapping brushes, she swiveled on her chair to the canvas. She made the cut of the V of his shirt, the white paint contrasting with the skin of his chest. She had suggested days ago Rowen wear full dress—coat, vest, cravat, trousers—but he had just laughed and refused. If the portrait was to be the true him, he wasn’t going to show up uncomfortable, putting on airs.

  Wynne leaned forward to study the shadow and began to realize the silence was weighing even heavier in the room.

  A pop and a crack from the fireplace, and Wynne sighed. She wanted to keep hearing Rowen’s voice—it helped her paint, and that was rarely the case with subjects.

  So she grasped onto the first neutral question that popped into her mind. “Do you believe in fate?”

  “No.”

  The answer came so quickly that Wynne paused, leaning to look at him. “Truly—for all you have done, for being in the right places at the right time to save all those horses, for not getting killed, for becoming a duke—you do not credit fate with a hand in it?”

  Rowen sighed. “Fine. I do. It is just that we have had a difficult relationship, fate and I.”

  She smirked at his flip. “Why so difficult?”

  “Fate was overruled when I was born—I never should have existed.” He folded up the paper that had been sitting on his lap and set it onto the table. “Fate then doled out harsh retributions for my birth—retributions that lasted years.”