Claiming the Courtesan

Since her abduction, she’d desperately tried to resurrect Soraya. She so needed the other woman’s self-possession and knowing superiority. But the worldly demimondaine stubbornly refused to emerge from the land of shades.

Instead, all she found within herself was Verity’s cowering heart. Verity wasn’t strong enough to withstand the Duke of Kylemore. He’d subjugate her totally and leave her with nothing after this was over.

He hadn’t gone to this trouble for the sake of a quick tumble. He hadn’t even gone to this trouble to reclaim what he’d shared with Soraya. No, he meant to destroy her. They both knew it.

Eventually the pervasive gloom of her thoughts forced her back to the equally gloomy house. There must be some way she could avoid her fate. Her inevitable, long-promised fate. But nothing sprang to mind, and there was no one to help her. She was as isolated from human assistance as if she were on the moon. Kylemore knew exactly what he was doing when he’d brought his mistress to this isolated hunting box.

Kylemore silently admitted he’d had no idea what he was doing when he brought his mistress to his childhood home. He already suspected that keeping Verity here was a mistake. She only made him vulnerable, just as this place made him vulnerable. And if ever he needed to hold fast to ruthlessness, it was now.

He flung himself off his mount’s back in the shadowy stables and cursed at length. Hamish had followed him inside out of the twilight, and he reached for Tannasg’s reins.

“Taking the Lord’s name in vain never did much tae help a situation, laddie,” he said in a soft, reproving burr. The lanterns were already lit, and they cast a soft glow over his stern expression.

They had been riding all day. After that appalling journey, any sane man would welcome the chance to stay in one place. But then, Kylemore had never considered himself a sane man. Nor would anyone else if they knew the facts behind this latest disaster, the abduction of his unwilling paramour.

At least the hours in the saddle today had achieved one positive outcome—Hamish Macleish no longer Your Graced him to death. Kylemore hadn’t expected them to regain their old closeness. But the day together had revived some of their earlier ease in each other’s company. Not to mention that it distanced him from both the house’s agonizing memories and his troublesome mistress.

Soraya. Verity. The woman he yearned for with every breath.

The woman who, as far as Hamish’s conversation was concerned, didn’t exist. Hell, Hamish already knew blasphemy numbered among his employer’s sins. Kidnapping was just one more peccadillo.

Still, Kylemore, ruthless, heartless knave that he was, couldn’t quite summon the courage to confess why he skulked in this remote corner of Scotland with one of the world’s most beautiful women in tow.

“Look after the horses,” he snapped, tired of the censure that underlay Hamish’s manner in spite of all the reawakened camaraderie.

Perhaps because of the reawakened camaraderie.

He was tired too of battling inconvenient scruples over his captive. Everything had seemed so clear when he’d searched for her. Soraya had duped him into giving her a fortune. She’d betrayed him by running away without a word. She deserved to be punished.

And by God, he’d enjoy punishing her.

But that was before he’d witnessed her uncomplaining bravery on the long and difficult journey when she’d been so scared of where she’d been going. Of horses. Of him.

That was before he’d seen her vulnerability when exhaustion had forced her to the edge of her endurance. When she’d still summoned the strength to defy him. Even while she must have known that defiance was useless.

Now he was going to take her.

The outcome had never been in doubt. What he hadn’t expected when he’d plotted his revenge was that his body and his heart would be so divided about his intentions.

Damn her.

“Goodnight, Your Grace,” Hamish said to Kylemore’s retreating back as he unsaddled the big gray horse.

The duke slammed open the door to Verity’s room with such force that the curtains billowed and the fire flickered wildly in the grate. It was late and she lay awake and afraid in the large bed. She knew there was no escape.

There had never been any escape.

How right she’d been to feel wary of the Duke of Kylemore from the moment they’d met. She’d been tragically wrong thinking she could manage him. Now she faced the consequences of that calamitous error of judgment.

Still, she refused to shrink before him like a cringing coward. She raised herself on her elbows against the pillows and tilted her chin.

“Good evening, Your Grace,” she said coolly.

Never let him guess how hard she fought to keep her voice steady, she prayed silently. Her heart thundered with fear, and only the outer limits of her will kept her from raising the sheet against her chest like a shield.

He stared across the room at her as if he hated her. She suspected he did.

“Good evening, Your Grace,” he mimicked cruelly. “By all means, let us preserve the formalities, madam.”