Claiming the Courtesan

It was a long time before Verity finally asked the question that had puzzled her since their arrival at the manor. “Have we already reached Scotland?”

He roused himself from his abstraction. He hadn’t spoken since they’d started north again, what felt like hours ago. She expected him to sound hostile or angry, given that she’d just tried to smash his skull, but he spoke with his usual urbane calmness.

“No. We’re still in Yorkshire. Why?”

“The Macleishes.”

“They’re caretakers at Hinton Stacey. I only open the house a few weeks a year during the shooting. Otherwise, the Macleishes run it for me.”

“They seem remarkably devoted to you,” she said sourly. Mary Macleish’s automatic and sincere praise of the duke had shocked and bewildered her. The woman had described someone Verity didn’t recognize.

By the light of the carriage lamps outside, she saw his cynical smile flicker. “They know which side their bread is buttered on.”

But Verity thought it was more than that. The Macleishes treated the duke like a hero. Did he conceal a better man within than he let the world see? And would that better man relent in his quest for retribution against his mistress?

Unfortunately, she doubted it.

He reached out and took her hands. “We both need to sleep.” He laced her hands together and tied one end of the cord to his own wrist.

She was too tired and discouraged to protest. What good would it achieve anyway? He’d do what he wanted with her. That was the unvarnished reality of being his captive.

After four days on the road, Verity viewed her short stay at Hinton Stacey with a nostalgia she’d never have believed possible. She had no more steaming, perfumed baths, no more freshly cooked meals served on fine china that gleamed in the candlelight. And as for the large bed that had terrified her into attacking her abductor, it was

laughably removed from the sleeping arrangements she endured on that endless journey.

They traveled night and day. She grew to hate the rattling, constantly moving carriage almost as intensely as she hated Kylemore.

Kylemore, who didn’t touch her but who wanted to so much that every moment between them was as sharp and cutting as a new knife. Kylemore, with his iron nerves and his nonchalance and his eternal surveillance. Even when she relieved herself in some isolated thicket, he and his henchmen patrolled the area within earshot.

It was mortifying. It was infuriating. It was clearly meant to break her spirit.

Verity Ashton’s spirit was harder to break than most. She refused to succumb to weakness or fatigue or anxiety. Hating Kylemore with every shred of her being gave her the strength to endure.

Enough of Soraya remained for her to consider subverting one of the Macleishes. The youngest boy, who she guessed was about sixteen, cast shyly admiring glances in her direction when he thought nobody noticed.

But the part of her that remembered working as a servant revolted at the prospect of destroying someone’s livelihood for her own purposes. The Macleishes were abetting a crime, but they were only the Devil’s helpers. The blame lay with their master. Such a greenling didn’t deserve to face destitution for his loyalty to an evil employer.

She’d hoped some rustic Lancelot might turn up to rescue her when they changed horses, but Kylemore held his hand over her mouth every time they stopped. And he always sent someone ahead to make arrangements so the changes happened smoothly and with notable speed.

On the fourth night, they camped in an abandoned crofter’s cottage instead of going on. Verity was so sick of the rattling, cramped conveyance that she didn’t question this change in their wearisome routine.

They’d crossed the border the day before, and with every mile, the roads worsened. Today, the carriage had lurched and bumped so violently that she was surprised none of her teeth had shaken loose.

As darkness closed in, she sat on the carriage rugs, which the Macleishes had spread for her comfort upon the sod floor. She watched silently as they prepared the evening meal. Oatcakes and salt herring yet again.

Verity, you’re getting soft, she told herself. There was a point in your life when oatcakes and herring would have seemed a feast. But self-castigation didn’t keep her from thinking that she’d sell her soul for a hot bath and a meal she ate with a knife and fork.

At least the roof was whole and she was, mercifully, dry. The temperature had dropped, and a sullen rain fell outside. The dank wind through the unsealed windows was a bleak reminder of how far north they’d penetrated. It might be August, but she was cold.

Wondering where Kylemore was, she shifted closer to the fire. He’d never left her alone and untied before. She didn’t waste what remained of her energy in making escape plans. Even if she managed to evade the Macleishes, where could she go in this depopulated wasteland? What a brutal place this Scotland of Kylemore’s was.

She heard voices and the sound of horses outside. The duke strode in, his dark hair sleeked back from his high forehead and his manner as purposeful as ever. She eyed him resentfully. Even after coming in out of the rain, he didn’t look as if he’d been dragged through a muddy hedge.

Oh, no. His Grace had taken advantage of his lackeys’ valeting skills. His Grace’s linen was white and pristine.

His Grace made her want to scream.

“Andy and Angus have arrived.” He addressed the Macleishes. “We’ll sleep here tonight. You can take the coach down to Kylemore Castle tomorrow.”