Verity was so still that she could have been planted there. He sighed and crossed the room to lift her in his arms. Unless he helped her, he doubted she’d make it upstairs to the first real bed she’d seen in days. Another twinge of conscience, familiar after days on the road, joined the noxious mix of feelings inside him.

When she stiffened, rejecting his touch, his uncertain temper snapped. His nerves were on edge—they had been for days—and her stubborn resistance provided his turbulent emotions with a focus.

“For Christ’s sake, woman! You’re safe until you’ve washed at least,” he growled down into her wan features.

Wan no longer. A difficult color rose in her cheeks. The unworthy jibe would sting the proud Soraya. He beat back an unwelcome wave of protectiveness; he’d brought her here to punish her, not to become her nursemaid, blast her.

Despite this, his hold was tender as he strode out of the parlor, across the hall and up the stairs. He told himself he only imagined she was lighter than she’d been at Hinton Stacey. But he was guiltily aware that she’d eaten very little in the last week. She seemed terrifyingly fragile, nothing but birdlike bones and perfect white skin.

Then he met her fierce silver eyes.

“I haven’t surrendered,” she said steadily.

He read the defiance in her as sharply as if she’d carved it on his flesh with a needle. He should have known better than to think he’d conquer her so swiftly. That stalwart soul wouldn’t bow just because she was weary and afraid. Renewed relish for the contest between them swamped his brief uncertainty.

Two maids were in the bedroom filling a bath and laying out soaps and towels. They curtseyed and greeted him in the musical Gaelic he still thought of as his heart’s language.

He placed Verity on her feet in the center of the room. Everything was prepared as he’d ordered. Of course it was. He was the Duke of Kylemore, he thought with no satisfaction whatsoever.

“I shall see you in the morning,” he said abruptly.

She blinked at him with dazed surprise. She must have expected him to jump on her before she’d had a chance to take off her shoes. Devil take her, after all this time in her company, he was certainly randy enough for it.

But not ready in the ways that mattered. Too many elements conspired to crack his usual control. The house. His memories. His need for her. Her vulnerability, in spite of her gallant efforts to keep fighting.

No, he’d be wiser seeking what rest he could well away from her and her drawn face and her fiery eyes.

He paused in the doorway. “Burn that black dress when madame has taken it off,” he said in Gaelic to the maids.

The next morning, Verity stirred as one of the maids brought her a cup of chocolate. Whatever else the duke intended for her, starvation mustn’t feature in his plans. Last night’s tray had been crammed with delicacies she hadn’t seen since leaving Kensington. He’d even sent up a bottle of fine claret.

Kylemore had been true to his surprising farewell. She’d bathed, eaten and, astonishingly, slept in peace.

Sitting up, she responded to what she assumed was a greeting from the maid, another Scot who didn’t, it appeared, speak any English. Gingerly, she shifted on the mattress to test if yesterday’s saddle-induced discomfort still persisted.

A little, she decided. But a night in a bed had worked wonders. Perhaps His Grace should go back to making her sleep on the ground. She felt much readier to tackle him today.

The maid opened the heavy curtains, which had been drawn since Verity had entered the room yesterday. In the space of a breath, all her well-being evaporated.

The windows were barred.

Verity thought she’d be confined, but no one stopped her when she left her room. With Angus and Andy dogging her heels, she began to explore her prison. The main house was more a sprawling farmhouse than anything else, like an overgrown version of the home she’d grown up in. The interior was dark and oppressive and decorated almost solely with hunting trophies. The heads of long-dead deer lined the walls, and sad examples of the taxidermist’s art crowded together in large display cases to stare out at her with lifeless glass eyes.

Going outside was a relief. As she glanced around the unkempt grounds with a frown, she rubbed her wrists. The memory of her bindings still chafed, even if the silk cords had left no mark.

After endless days of traveling, she found it strange to spend a whole day in one place. The air was brisk for summer, and she huddled into the teal merino dress the maids had produced for her that morning. Although she knew her pervasive chill had nothing to do with the weather and everything to do with rampant apprehension.

The area immediately around the house had been coaxed into a straggling lawn. Fields lay behind the barn. The rest of the valley was mainly forest, although patches of heather and bracken grew in clearings high on the hillsides. A path led down to a loch. Farm buildings and a couple of cottages where the

servants must live completed the settlement. She supposed the scene was beautiful, in its forbidding way.

She soon understood why her jailers permitted her so much freedom. Unless she took her chances on the road over the mountains or she was an exceptionally fine swimmer, escape was impossible. And she couldn’t ask for aid, because apart from the man who’d greeted them yesterday, none of the valley’s residents spoke English.

At first, Verity was relieved the duke left her alone. Maintaining her courage was easier when she didn’t have to endure that searching indigo stare. But as the interminable day dragged on, she almost wished he’d appear. Anything to end this awful hiatus, when every minute seemed to stretch across an hour.

Then she’d remember how he’d kissed her in the carriage and fear would flare again. Somehow in that kiss, he’d bypassed her will and her intellect and her hatred. He’d discovered the real woman hidden beneath Soraya’s tricks and seductions. The real woman Verity had never allowed to breathe free in all her years as a courtesan.

What was she to do? How was she to protect herself from Kylemore? Worse, how was she to stifle her own response?

Tags: Anna Campbell Historical
Source: readsnovelonline.net