Claiming the Courtesan

The man continued, “Everything is prepared as you requested.”

“Thank you, Fergus.” Kylemore turned to reach back into the coach and scoop Verity into his arms.

He accomplished the awkward maneuver without difficulty. She wanted to despise him as nothing more than a hulking bully. But unfortunately, his physical dexterity, impressive as it was, paled in comparison to his mental agility. If she had to make an enemy, she thought on a grim spurt of humor, she’d at least chosen one worthy of the name.

Under the impassive gaze of the middle-aged servant, Kylemore hitched her more securely against him. Four torches lit the smooth turning circle before the house, so she saw the Scotsman glance at her bonds, then look away with no change in expression.

There would be no rescue from that direction. No wonder Kylemore hadn’t gagged her. She could scream herself hoarse and Fergus would just level another impersonal stare upon her.

The duke’s arms were warm and secure around her and reminded her unbearably of how he’d held her when he’d kissed her. Although she knew it would do no real good, Verity stiffened to make it difficult for him to carry her.

“Stop it,” he said sharply, shifting his hold. Curse him, he didn’t sound remotely breathless as he climbed the wide stairs up to the house’s main door.

“I don’t care if you drop me,” she said defiantly. Fresh air and escape from the carriage, with its pervasive memories of how they’d kissed, combined to reawaken her spirit.

“Brave words. But I doubt you’d appreciate being bruised on the cold hard marble.” The firmness of his chest pressed into her side as he tightened his grip.

This close, he felt large, ruthless and powerful. But he smelled like passion and pleasure and peace. Devil take him for kissing her. She began to struggle. Not that her trussed state allowed much leeway for movement.

“If you don’t behave, I’ll haul you over my shoulder.”

“Your Grace’s humble servant would never seek such an honor,” she said acidly.

“Right.” His loud exhalation indicated endless masculine irritation. “Remember, you asked for this.”

He balanced her upon her bound feet on the top landing and bent to take her over his shoulder. It was exactly how a farm laborer lifted a sack of wheat. The sudden image from her childhood held her immobile for the moment Kylemore took to settle her as a helpless burden. Her unbound hair flopped around her face in a tangled black curtain. She fisted her dangling hands and made an ineffectual attempt to pummel him into letting her go.

“I didn’t ask for this,” she choked against his superfine coat. She felt the powerful muscles of his back flexing through the material as he moved.

“Too late,” he said, striding toward the door that his minion held open.

Kylemore was so tall that the floor loomed a very long way off indeed. She gulped with a combination of terror and outrage. Not that she thought he’d let her fall. His plans to hurt her didn’t include smashing her on the ground.

They were in a candlelit hall now. Elegant black and white tiling replaced the marble landing. Unfortunately, it looked equally hard, and the geometric pattern made her dizzy as she crossed it flung across the duke’s shoulder.

“Welcome, Your Grace.”

Verity’s tumbling mane of hair prevented her from seeing the woman who greeted them.

“Good evening, Mary,” the duke said as urbanely as if he’d been at a ball in Mayfair and not lugging a captive about in God knew what obscure corner of the kingdom.

Verity grunted and wriggled to clear her vision, but it was useless. She was humiliated knowing that her rump stuck up in the air and her calves and ankles were exposed. She tried to kick the duke, but his arm remained secure across her thighs.

“The rose room has been readied,” the woman, another Scot, said. Both servants sounded absurdly calm, considering that their master carted around a bound and clearly unwilling woman. Perhaps they were used to assisting His Grace with abductions.

“Excellent. We shall bathe. Then supper, I think.”

“Very good, Your Grace.” Verity heard the servant move away as the duke started up yet more steps. She tried again to kick him to relieve some of her frustration.

He retaliated quickly with a slap across her bottom.

“Ow!” She wriggled in protest, although her skirts and petticoats meant he hadn’t actually hurt her. No, the blow had only stung her pride.

“Be still,” he growled and began to take the stairs at what from her precarious viewpoint seemed a reckless pace.

By the time he placed her on her feet in a luxurious bedroom, she felt disoriented and a little sick. But that didn’t stop her from fighting.

“You really are a savage, aren’t you?” she said bitterly. She shook her head to try and clear her hair from her eyes.