Claiming the Courtesan

Her brother was resourceful and clever. He’d find her, if anyone could. As it had so many times since she’d left Whitby, that frail hope beat back her dangerous weakness.

Her jailers caroused late around the campfire, drinking some disgusting spirit the new arrivals had brought with them. Verity sat on the rugs in the shadows, but she didn’t fool herself that the men’s seeming distraction put freedom within reach. Every time she so much as shifted, Kylemore’s cold blue stare settled on her.

The duke didn’t join in the revelry, although she was surprised at his level of familiarity with his henchmen. He’d never been a model of sociability, but she knew him enough to recognize the strong bond he shared with these men. She couldn’t imagine a group of English servants behaving with such ease in the presence of their aristocratic master.

Eventually, Kylemore left his companions and came across to where she waited. In the uncertain golden light, his expression was unreadable. Whatever liquor he’d imbibed had made no inroads on his uncanny control. She suppressed a shiver that had nothing to do with the cold air and everything to do with what he might want from her.

Was he still angry over her insult? Did he mean to punish her? She’d long ago accepted that none of the Macleishes would interfere if the duke chastised her physically. In London, he’d never mistreated her. Here beyond the reaches of civilization, who knew what he’d do if she tested his temper far enough? He might kill her. Sometimes on this endless journey, she wished he would.

He knelt before her in a pose that conveyed nothing of supplication. “Give me your hands.”

His voice brooked no argument. Wordlessly and with a scorn she wanted him to see, she obeyed. She did her best to hide her fear, as she had since he’d reappeared to fracture her quest for chaste anonymity. A pity she knew her false bravado didn’t fool him in the slightest.

He bound her, then tied the end of the cord around his own wrist. The pattern was familiar after the nights in the carriage, when both had grabbed what sleep they could sitting opposite one another. But tonight, of course, was different. For the first time, they hadn’t traveled through the night.

Although she thought it unlikely he’d ravish her in full view of his men, she couldn’t stop herself from hissing, “Remember your promise.”

His face remained impassive. “Don’t worry. You’re safe enough for now.”

Sometimes she wondered if she imagined his tamped blaze of desire, but on this occasion she had no doubts at all. Lust all but smoked from his lean form.

Strange to consider that while he’d always been in many ways a puzzle to her, she’d never had any difficulty assessing his precise level of sexual arousal. When she’d seen him across Sir Eldreth’s crowded drawing room, she’d known immediately that he’d wanted her. She’d known that even before she’d known who he was.

She wished to heaven she’d never found out who he was.

The duke lay down. For as long as she could, Verity sat up, but eventually exhaustion made her stretch out next to him. He grunted wearily and tugged one of the rugs up to keep them from the chill. She waited for him to haul her into his arms, but he lay separate from her and stared up into the rough rafters of the roof. The men across the room gradually settled. All was quiet apart from the rain pattering on the roof when Kylemore spoke.

“Don’t pin your hopes on your brother rescuing you.”

Verity didn’t answer but moved as far away from him as the length of the ties allowed. Unfortunately, it wasn’t far enough to forget he was there.

Verity woke to a delicious feeling of heat and comfort. It was dark, but something told her night was almost over. To confirm that impression, the first morning bird called from the trees outside the cottage.

Kylemore’s powerful arms twined around her, and he slept heavy and still beside her. His scent and heat surrounded her like a sensual miasma. Under the blanket that covered them to the waist, he’d flung one long leg across hers in an unmistakable claim of ownership.

It was too much for her to bear. Choking with outrage, she struggled frantically to put some distance between them.

He groaned as he half woke. “Jesus, woman! What is it?”

“Let me go!” she said in a fierce whisper, punching him wildly in her attempt to free herself.

He sat up and rapidly worked at the cord that tangled them together. “Damn it, Verity. Settle down,” he snapped.

Thank God he no longer clutched her as if they were lashed together in a rough sea. She took her first full breath since she’d woken.

“Tie me to something else,” she said, still with a trace of her earlier hysteria. “I don’t want to sleep with you.”

“You’re being absurd,” he said in a bored voice, fiddling with the knotted cord.

“Is everything all right over there, Your Grace?” One of the Macleish boys lifted his head and rubbed bleary eyes in the light of the dying fire.

“Nothing I can’t handle.” Then a short burst of Gaelic that made the other man laugh sleepily.

Verity had no trouble interpreting their masculine amusement at her foolishness. She wished every male on earth to Hades at that moment. With the hottest spot reserved for the fiend at her side.

Eventually, Kylemore straightened the ties. With a long-suffering sigh, he lay down once more. She was thankful to notice he kept a space between them this time.

“Don’t touch me again!” she said vehemently, lying on her back and staring blindly up into the shadows in the roof.