Claiming the Courtesan
She shook her head. “No, you misunderstand me.” She took a deep breath and marshaled her courage. “I see you as a man of honor.”
He met her eyes squarely—these Scottish rustics were remarkably free of their southern counterparts’ sycophantic ways. “May the good Lord keep me so, my lady.”
“A man who wouldn’t stand by and allow a woman to be abducted and abused.”
The man’s expression became shuttered. “Ye ask me tae help ye get away,” he said flatly.
She took a step closer and injected a pleading note into her voice. “The Duke of Kylemore stole me from my family. I’m here against my will. My heart is set on a virtuous life, yet he forces me to play his mistress. You must believe me. As a man of honor, you must assist me.”
He shook his head. “No, my lady.”
“But you must help me!” she cried desperately, reaching for his arm. Surely he couldn’t just abandon her to her fate now that he knew what the duke had done to her.
“I serve His Grace tae the last breath in my body.” He sounded regretful but immovable as he shook himself free of her clinging grip. “I feel for your troubles. But I cannae help ye. I gave my oath of obedience tae the duke.”
Although she knew she wasted her time, she couldn’t give up. This might be her only chance to persuade Hamish to her cause. If he failed her, where else could she turn?
Her voice shook with urgency. “I’ll pay you. I’ll pay you well. Take me back to my brother. I swear you’ll be rewarded.”
His frown indicated the offer offended him. “No, lassie, I dinna want your money.”
She spread her hands in frantic appeal. “But your master commits a great wrong.”
“No Macleish will gae against His Grace’s word. Without the duke’s favor, there wouldnae be Macleishes left in the Highlands. He saved us all from ruin and exile. So I’m sorry, my lady.” His eyes sharpened on her face. “And don’t ye be thinking of trying tae run off on your own. Folk die in these mountains, even folk who ken them. A wee lassie wouldnae ken what tae do when a fog came down or the rocks crumbled under her feet.”
The picture was graphic enough and underlined what the duke had told her. It didn’t necessarily mean it was true.
The man’s weathered face grew more kindly, “Och, my lady, I’ve served His Grace since he was a bairn. I cannae break faith. All I can say is he’ll have reasons for what he does.”
Yes, lust and pique and anger, she felt like retorting.
But what would it serve? This was the second time she’d sought help from Kylemore’s retainers, and she’d failed abysmally on both occasions. The selfish oaf had certainly surrounded himself with unhesitatingly loyal servants.
Hamish obviously felt he owed a debt to the duke. Feudal ties must still hold strong in this isolated corner of the kingdom, however iniquitous the particular lord of the manor.
Her shoulders slumped, and she turned away to hide a sudden rush of tears. It was starkly apparent the old man wouldn’t help her. Defeated, she went back to grubbing at the weeds. If she was to escape, she was on her own.
Unexpectedly, Kylemore joined Verity for dinner in the parlor that also served as the house’s dining room. When she found him waiting, it suddenly struck her how little time he spent in the house. She supposed he must pass the daylight hours revisiting childhood haunts.
Well, wherever he went and whatever he did, it didn’t bring him ease. She recalled his bleak expression last night. Yet again, she wondered what torments lay beneath the duke’s composure. His unnaturally self-assured facade would never deceive her again.
He turned from the window where he stood. The room faced the loch, and the evening sun glittered gold on the flat water behind him. “Verity.”
“Your Grace.”
Manners dictated that she curtsey. She ignored them. The small defiance bolstered her faltering confidence. A kidnapper didn’t deserve observations due his rank.
She was unsure how to behave with him. Her usual sullen recalcitrance seemed misplaced after a night in his arms.
How she wished she’d never heard those terrible cries. It was impossible to treat the Duke of Kylemore as an inhuman monster when she’d glimpsed his inner agony.
He stepped forward to pull out her chair at the table where she usually ate in solitude. Although still dressed for the country, a buff coat covered his shirtsleeves and he wore a neckcloth tied in a simple knot.
“Hamish tells me you’ve taken up gardening.”
He almost sounded conversational. She cast him a suspicious glance under her lashes. Had Mr. Macleish also told him she’d asked for help to run away? She studied his face as she sat down where he’d indicated, but she couldn’t tell what he thought.
Nothing new there.