Lords of the Isles

by Le Veque, Kathryn

  Drake stared at a point over the crown of her hair. He inhaled the faint scent of lemons, which always clung to her. It represented purity and filled his senses with the heady aphrodisiac of hope. “How many what ifs there are. What if you had sent your letters? What if I had written you? What if I had shown up and paid my respects the day your father passed away? What would our life be like at this moment?”

  The amount of regret he carried seemed enough to fill the Thames River.

  But he had to tell her the whole of it. He could not offer her marriage without the truth laid out between them. Even if the truth could cost him—her.

  “I still have nightmares…and as you witnessed, the episodes.” He studied his hands a moment. “They come less frequently than when I first returned from the Peninsula, but they are still there. I…” He swallowed. “Fear the war turned me into a madman. The day I visited you in your garden, I put my hands on you and it almost killed me. I cannot make you my wife, without you knowing everything there is to know.”

  She reached a tremulous hand out and with a fleeting caress, stroked his tense jaw. “I wrote you a note. It was about a dream I’d had. The war was over—”

  “I was wandering about a field, lost.”

  “I wrote, if you are lost—’”

  “I will help you.” He finished and felt his throat bob up and down under the force of his emotion.

  Emmaline brushed her lips against his. The soft meeting was like the fluttering whisper of a butterflies wings. It tasted of love.

  “I will help you,” she promised and brushed back a lock of hair that had fallen across his brow.

  Drake pressed his forehead against hers.

  He was so close, his toes peeked over the cliff of possibilities, desperately wanting to leap with her. But he’d held back so long, capitulation was far too hard. “I don’t want you to be hurt.”

  Emmaline leaned up on tiptoes and held his gaze. “Oh, you silly man. Don’t you yet know, the only way I’m hurt is when I’m not with you? I love you.”

  Drake dropped his attention to where her hand rested in his. Clearing his throat, he reached into the front of his jacket and pulled out the emerald ring that had belonged to his mother; a ring given in love by his father. And now, if she didn’t have the good sense to run the either way, would belong to Emmaline. “Will you marry me?”

  Emmaline gasped. “It’s a ring,” she blurted.

  A smile played on his lips. “I hope your answer is yes, because I am fairly certain your brother’s answer will be no, and I’d like one yes for the day.”

  Drake grunted as Emmaline threw herself into his arms. The unexpected movement sent him tumbling backward. She landed on his chest. The ring landed somewhere alongside them.

  Sir Faithful jumped up and ran in circles about them, yapping his excitement.

  “Yes, you foolish man. A million times yes!”

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  For the third time in Drake’s life, he crossed into the Duke of Mallen’s office for a meeting that would determine his future. It did not escape his notice how Mallen failed to rise when Drake entered the room. Nor did the stoic man offer any greeting. Instead, he watched Drake with a hawk-like intensity, as if he feared Drake were a thief from the Seven Dials with intentions of absconding with the family jewels.

  Which, come to think of it, wasn’t too far from the mark.

  When it didn’t seem as though the duke had any intentions of offering him a seat, Drake motioned to the leather-winged chair in front his desk. “May I?”

  Mallen rapped distractedly on the desktop, the first indication of the other man’s unease. “As you wish.”

  Drake settled into the seat and looped his ankle over his opposite knee. He could easily understand Mallen’s dogged protectiveness of Emmaline. Though Drake had no siblings, he imagined if he did, that the last thing he’d allow was for his sister to wed a rogue like himself; especially after she’d been hurt by said rogue. In fact, in thinking on it, Mallen had been far more magnanimous than he, Drake would have been. Hell, Mallen would have been justified calling him out.

  Mallen’s fingers ceased their distracted movements. “Have you come to sit and stare at me all day?” Mallen’s words dripped with heavy sarcasm.

  Drake shifted in his seat. “No, not at all, Your Grace.”

  Mallen fixed him with a hard stare. “So, of a sudden, it’s Your Grace?”

  This wasn’t going as Drake had planned. Might as well come out with it. “I’ve come to discuss your sister,” he said evenly.

  A muscle ticked at the corner of the duke’s right eye. He leaned across the desk. “Oh? To discuss my sister?”

  He took a fortifying breath. “I want to ask for her hand—”

  “You are either mad, arrogant, or both.” Mallen pointed a finger in Drake’s direction. “For fifteen years you haven’t paid Emmaline any notice. Not until she asked me to sever the arrangement did you decide to court her and that is only after the gossips dragged her name through the scandal sheets. Tell me, why would I ever consent to turning the person I love more than anyone else, over to you?”

  “Because I…” Drake tried to force out a suitable response.

  But no words emerged.

  That was the rub of it—Drake couldn’t give one bloody reason Mallen should allow him Emmaline’s hand in marriage. Mallen possessed one of the most revered titles in the kingdom and therefore wouldn’t be impressed by Drake’s status as heir to a dukedom. Nor could Drake drum up one redeeming quality that he possessed to garner the other gentleman’s respect.

  Nor could he come here and believe that he might erase fifteen years of neglect.

  He did know that his only desire was to spend every minute of the rest of his life married to her. That thought consumed him like a conflagration. He wanted her, nay, needed her, and even if it meant spiriting her off to Gretna Green, he was determined to wed her.

  “I’m waiting,” Mallen said.

  No argument would ever be sufficient for the other man.

  He settled for honesty. “I need her.”

  Mallen scoffed. “You need her.”

  She had become his sustenance. “Yes, I need her like I need water and air to breathe.”

  The Duke groaned. “Please spare me any further of your meager attempts at poetry.”

  Drake’s collar grew unbearably tight at mention of his recitation the prior evening, and he gave his cravat a tug. In spite of Mallen’s scornful words, he forced himself to press on. After all, he hadn’t expected to saunter into the Duke’s office, request Emmaline’s hand, and receive the other man’s blessing. He steeled himself. “I’m not being poetic. I need—”

  Sebastian swiped the air with an angry hand. “You think I care what you need? I care about what she wants and needs. And as her brother, I can say with great confidence that you sir, are not it.” Mallen’s voice had climbed in volume.

  Drake remained quiet. Mallen’s tightly coiled frame indicated he was spoiling for a fight. Drake wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. To do so, would invite Mallen to toss him out.

  The duke slammed his fist on the desktop. “Damn it. Say something.”

  Uncrossing his leg, Drake leaned forward. He held his palms up. “Listen, Mallen. You don’t like me. Which is fine because I don’t much like myself. With the exception of a handful of moments in my life, I am hardly proud of who I am. I’ve got a surly disposition, I’ve carried on with more widows and opera singers than I can list.” He plowed ahead of the Duke’s black expression. “I can go on and on. But Emmaline makes me wish I were a better person. More than that, she makes me want to be a better man—for her.”

  Silence descended, punctuated by the tick of the mantle clock. Mallen scrubbed his hands over his face looking like a man twenty years older. “Damn you and that argument.” He dropped his hands and continued to eye Drake with a hard look. “Do you love her?”

  Drake paused, frozen by the other man’s quest
ion. There it was, again. The question—did he love her? Did he love her? He couldn’t fathom life without her; knew it would be a desolate existence. Before Emmaline he’d hardly managed a sincere laugh or smile. Having grown up motherless and then living the life of a soldier, he’d never really given much thought to the sentiment.

  “That isn’t your business.”

  Mallen jumped up from his seat and stormed out from behind his desk, clearly prepared to argue the point with Drake.

  Drake walked over to the duke. Only a hairsbreadth separated them. “Let me stop you, Mallen. It is my intention to wed your sister and I assure you it is her intention to wed me. Emmaline wants your blessing and because of that, I’m asking you to accept my suit. But, I’m going to marry her with or without your approval. Is that understood?”

  The door opened and both men spun around at the intrusion.

  The duchess stood framed in the doorway. “You will most certainly give your blessing, Sebastian.”

  “Mother, I am handling this—”

  “Poorly,” the Duchess of Mallen cut in. She claimed Drake’s hands. “So you’ve finally come to your senses, I see.”

  He nodded solemnly. “Yes, Your Grace. I’ve been bewitched by your daughter.”

  It was the truth, but it was also the right thing to say. A smile reminiscent of Emmaline’s played about the duchess’s lips. “I wondered when you would at last realize that.”

  Mallen raked an angry hand through his hair. “If it weren’t for my mother and my sister, the answer would be, no.”

  Drake strove for graciousness. He knew what the capitulation cost Mallen.

  Drake nodded solemnly and stretched his hand out. “Thank you.”

  Finally, Mallen accepted Drake’s hand. “Hurt her and I’ll kill you.”

  Emmaline stepped into the room. “Don’t be so melodramatic, Sebastian.”

  The sight of her there in a pale pink creation trimmed in delicate lace, her eyes shining with adoring love and joy, caused Drake’s heart to pick up a swift beat.

  Mallen threw his arms up. “Lovely, so glad you could join us. Why don’t we call in Carmichael and the entire household staff for this meeting?”

  Emmaline ignored her brother and glided into the room, coming to a stop before Drake.

  He bowed low. “My lady.”

  “My lord.”

  He needed to feel her skin against his, needed some kind of assurance that she was real and not the phantom creature who’d visited only in his peaceful dreams. He took her hands in his. “We are to be married.”

  Emmaline stepped into Drake’s arms like it was the only place in the world she belonged—and mayhap it was. He held her close. With a hand that trembled, Drake stroked her cheek. He forgot about Mallen. The duchess. The war became a distant memory. He forgot about everyone and everything, but her and the feel of her soft, slim body in his arms. It turned out everyone else had been right after all. He did love her.

  Imagine that.

  “Get your hands off my sister.” Mallen snarled.

  Drake jerked back to reality and placed appropriate distance between him and Emmaline.

  “Six months.”

  He really should have been paying far closer attention to the duke. “I’m sorry?”

  “Not as sorry as I am,” Mallen muttered. “A six month betrothal—”

  Emmaline gasped.

  “Don’t be absurd,” the Duchess of Mallen said.

  “Three,” Drake countered.

  Mallen’s jaw set in a hard, unyielding line. “Six months. You waited fifteen years, what is another six months?”

  Emmaline set her hands on her hips. “Really, Sebastian?” She looked to her mother for intervention.

  “Three weeks,” Drake reiterated over the crown of Emmaline’s chocolate waves.

  “You are mad. Absolutely not. Why, why the planning, the preparation, the scandal—”

  The duchess took her son’s hand between hers and gave it a reassuring squeeze. “I never took you for one to get weighed down with wedding details.”

  “Six months is rather a ridiculous length of time, no?” Emmaline argued.

  Mallen looked from Emmaline to Drake and then his mother, like something of a caged animal. “I—I…”

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Ultimately, when faced with the persistent Marquess of Drake, a pestering younger sister, and a displeased mother, the Duke of Mallen had no choice but to agree to speedy nuptials. So it was three weeks later at the Duke of Mallen’s country seat in Leeds, with a special license from the Archbishop of Canterbury, Emmaline, escorted by Sebastian, walked down the intimate aisle of the family church to the man who’d upended her world.

  They reached the front of the altar and Sebastian continued to stare with his gaze fixed blankly ahead.

  She gave his hand a gentle squeeze. “I love you,” she whispered.

  Sebastian looked down at his sister, and then shifted his gaze over to the Marquess of Drake, who eyed him with an inscrutable expression. “Hurt her and I’ll kill you.” He placed Emmaline’s hand in Drake’s and claimed his seat at the front pew.

  Emmaline turned a smile up at Drake. “I think he handled that rather well,” she whispered.

  A startled bark of laughter escaped Drake, causing the select few guests in attendance to erupt into a bevy of curious murmurs.

  “If I may?” the vicar inquired, his tone dry. He cleared his throat and continued.

  *

  “Wilt thou have this woman to be thy wedded wife, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of Matrimony? Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honor and keep her, in sickness and in health: and, forsaking all other, keep thee only unto her so long as ye both shall live?”

  “I will,” Drake vowed.

  They were just two words, yet somehow they flowed over Emmaline like the faintest caress.

  I’m dreaming, she thought, a smile on her lips.

  She didn’t want to ever look away from the green of his eyes and the emotion she saw there. In him she saw her past; the five-year-old girl with dreams of the thirteen-year-old prince, who’d rescued her up from her knees in her father’s office. He represented the hopes she’d carried as a young lady for a love match, dreams that had defied the reality of Society’s cold, calculated unions. And now she saw her future—their future. She—

  Drake gave a discreet cough.

  The vicar looked at Emmaline, with a dark scowl.

  … forgot to speak her vows.

  “Oh, I missed it.” If she weren’t standing in a church, in front of her family, a vicar, and the select members who’d been invited to their wedding, she would have cursed. She looked to Drake. His mouth twitched as though he fought back a laugh.

  No help there. Emmaline sighed. What had she expected? It wasn’t as though he could reclaim the moment for her.

  There was a hum of confusion amongst the small crowd.

  He leaned in and whispered, “I assure you, my dear, you can still recite the words. You haven’t lost the opportunity.”

  “I will,” Emmaline blurted.

  Then just like that, after fifteen long years she became the Marchioness of Drake.

  The smattering of applause, the flurry of signatures required of them, and the festive wedding breakfast passed in a whirl. At the conclusion of the festivities, Emmaline and Drake started for the carriage.

  Drake waved off the groom who rushed forward to help. He held out his arm to Emmaline. “Shall we?”

  She placed her fingers along his coat sleeves but then froze. Her brother cut a path through the small throng of well-wishers and walked over to Emmaline and Drake. He stopped in front of them.

  The two men stood there. Her brother and husband locked in some silent match of the wills. Emmaline held her breath. Her brother had assented to a match between her and Drake but she wanted so much more than that. She wanted the two of them to forge a friendship. They were the two most important men in
her life.

  Drake broke the impasse. He held out a hand to his new brother-in-law.

  Sebastian’s jaw set and for a moment, Emmaline thought he might reject the offer of peace. Then, her brother accepted the gesture. Two strong hands united with a commitment for a truce—an uneasy truce perhaps, but a truce nonetheless.

  Emmaline waited until they’d finished and went up on tiptoe. She kissed her brother. “I love you.”

  Sebastian scratched his jaw, clearly uncomfortable with her public show of emotion. He patted her on the shoulder. “None of that.” Then in his typical fashion, Sebastian glared at Drake. “I meant what I said in the church. Hurt her and I—”

  “I heard you and would encourage you to do just that,” Drake interrupted, his tone solemn.

  Sebastian, paused appearing startled by Drake’s concession. With a curt nod, he directed his attention to Emmaline. “Here.” He thrust a package at her.

  Emmaline looked from him to the oddly shaped gift in her hands.

  “It’s a wedding gift.”

  Emmaline placed one final kiss on her brother’s cheek and then Drake made a move to hand her up into the carriage.

  “I love you, too,” Sebastian blurted.

  She winked. “I know.”

  The doors to the carriage closed and Emmaline leaned her head out the window. She waved at their guests until they were no longer in sight, and then drew laughingly back inside.

  Feeling his eyes on her, Emmaline glanced at him. “What?”

  “You are so beautiful,” he murmured, a husky tone underlying his words.

  Her cheeks heated and she dipped her head. Though there was an easy sense of comfort in being with Drake, there was also some awkwardness in the dramatic shift that had occurred in their situation. Her lips tipped at the corner.

  “Why the catlike smile, love?”

  “I was thinking about all the times when I was a girl that I would practice twining my name with yours. And now you’re my husband.”

  Emmaline settled into his side, burrowing herself close. She stretched her legs out on the seat in front of them. Her movements upset the forgotten gift. It tumbled to the floor.