The Duke Read online

  This immodest lust does not become you, Amarantha. Have no fear. I will teach you to control your impulses.

  “You are very good to do this, Amarantha,” Libby said. “Since women are not permitted to attend dissections at the university, I am entirely dependent on live volunteers. I wish Papa would allow me to purchase thieves’ cadavers for study.”

  “I should like to see a dead body,” Iris declared.

  “No, you should not,” Alice said. “They are not nearly as interesting as dear Elizabeth suggests.”

  A scratch sounded upon the door. “Miss Shaw.” Alice’s housekeeper proffered a letter. “This just arrived from the doctor.”

  “How unusual for Papa to send me a message when I am only here.” Libby popped the wax seal. “Perhaps the president of the infirmary wishes to—” Her eyes widened. “Amarantha, dress quickly. We must return home immediately to pack.”

  “Pack for what, child?” Alice said.

  “For the opportunity of a lifetime.” Libby tossed tools and diagrams into her satchel.

  “Good heavens, dear girl, explain this at once.”

  “The Duke of Loch Irvine has sent an invitation! Papa and Amarantha and I are going to Haiknayes Castle.”

  Chapter 16

  The Devil’s Keep

  Haiknayes Castle

  Midlothian, Scotland

  “What were you thinking, Gabriel?” Ziyaeddin said from the corner of the library where he lounged.

  Standing at the library window, Gabriel studied the ribbon of muddy road that stretched to the closest tenant farm. Only a portion of the road was visible; trees had grown up and blocked the castle’s view of much of the surrounding land. A late snow, melting now, cut a jagged path alongside the barrier that protected the north fields.

  If he did not send men in there within the day, the earth would crumble and the entire valley would flood.

  His predecessors must be scowling in their graves. He should have long since seen to such matters. The hope of Kallin and everybody there rested in these lands spread out before him, in these valleys that could be sown with wheat and barley, and in these rich hills that could pasture both cattle and sheep.

  He had missed this land. And now he would make it right. In a month the lambing would commence. Then came the shearing. In the meantime the fields would be planted with grain, timber farming recommenced, and cattle purchased. Come harvest, Haiknayes would be making enough profit to send gold to Kallin. And wonderfully, all of it could be done with the labor of men.

  Inviting eight town dwellers to the castle for an extended house party had not been in the plan.

  Inviting her had been a colossal mistake.

  What was he thinking, indeed?

  “’Twas a business decision.” Not entirely untrue. He and Calum Tate had been wrangling for weeks already, and now Tate’s gout was ailing him. Inviting him to Haiknayes for a holiday seemed the easiest solution to softening up the savvy merchant.

  But the real truth of it was that, standing in the darkness of that library, he had acted on impulse. With bright cheeks and defiant chin, she had blinked her lashes over those spectacular eyes he remembered like he remembered everything about her—too well—and he had wanted only one thing.

  Again.

  Only one thing.

  The years had transformed the pretty girl into a beautiful woman.

  “An’ green eyes,” he mumbled to the emerald vista that could not rival the brilliance of those eyes.

  Moving to his desk, he took up a pen and wrote a message to Cassandra to accompany the sewing machine for Sophie in the village. Cassandra had made a fine case for the machine’s potential to speed Sophie’s productivity. Since dress shops were clamoring for her gowns, he could hardly reply that purchasing such a machine would deplete the ducal coffers yet again. As soon as his groom returned from Leith, he would send him off to Glen Village with the machine.

  Apparently he could deny those women nothing, even if it meant destitution in the near future.

  Nor, apparently, could he deny himself certain disaster.

  Months ago at Kallin, sending her away had been wise. Reopening a wound was always foolhardy.

  And yet.

  He had touched her. And discovered that the reality was better than every dream. Soft and strong and warm and quivering with life, she had accepted it. With wide eyes, parted lips, and a quick pulse beating a rhythm in her throat, she had leaned in.

  He needed more. He had always needed more of her. More and more and more.

  So, after sixteen years he was finally home. And expecting guests.

  One housekeeper and one manservant were insufficient servants to serve a party of eight.

  “I’ve got to hire more servants.”

  “More servants?” Ziyaeddin’s coat was of velvet, his lace cuffs languid, an affectation of calm belied by the intelligent gleam in his eyes. “For how many days do you intend to inflict these people on the peace and quiet of my house?”

  “’Tis no’ your house. An’ you’re welcome to join the party, if you care to.”

  “On my grave.”

  “Hermit.”

  “Barbarian. Who is she?”

  “She?”

  “The woman for whom you are now opening the doors of this castle for the first time since you took possession of it. You did not imagine I would guess it. Would you like me to paint her? In the regular fashion, of course. I would be delighted.”

  “Suggest it to her an’ I’ll toss you from the ramparts, cur.”

  “I am correct. There is a woman.”

  “There’s always a woman.”

  One woman. Only ever one woman.

  He went to the door. Within hours a fiery-haired Englishwoman would arrive and set to doing God knew what—searching for clues to condemn him, probably.

  As soon as he had seen to hiring laborers to clear the trees and mend the trench and a few more servants for the house, he would discover her intent in seeking him out yet again. He would listen to her questions and he would give her the answers he must to subdue her curiosity.

  Then, as before, he would send her away. This time permanently.

  The duke sent a coach. Entirely black on the exterior, with no noble crest or decorative adornments, it was luxurious within.

  A fortnight’s sojourn, the invitation had read. His Grace welcomes you and your daughter two days hence to Haiknayes, as well as your esteemed houseguest.

  In two days Libby had not ceased talking about the old duke’s extensive collection of treasures gathered on his many journeys abroad: dried plants and mysterious rocks and the skeletons and pelts of exotic animals. The amateur naturalist’s collection was a thing of legend. Part of it had burned along with the duke’s house in Edinburgh, but the bulk of it had always been at Haiknayes.

  When the coach rounded a copse and Haiknayes Castle appeared on the ridge before them, a string of nerves wiggled into Amarantha’s throat.

  It was nothing like Kallin.

  Two massive towers, paired so closely that they were connected all the way up to the sturdy crenellations of the ramparts, reigned majestically over the valley. Surrounded by a wall taller than a man, with a gate of iron surmounted by pikes and a long, straight drive lined with ancient trees, Haiknayes was an imposing fortress. Windows pocked the sheer walls of the keep irregularly, and a giant crater marked one façade: the remnants of centuries-old cannon blast.

  Yet in its power it was beautiful. Built of stone that was more luxuriously pink than gray, there was a lushness to both castle and walls. The hills brindled with snow and the dark pines rising along its eastern flank rendered it almost like the setting for a fairytale.

  “Whose carriage is that?” Libby said, stepping down from the carriage and looking back through the gate toward the stable where a traveling coach stood unattended with its placid team.

  “Perhaps the duke has other guests,” Dr. Shaw said.

  Amarantha moved toward the
gatehouse. A wide, round structure, it commanded the corner of the wall that surrounded the keep. Stepping up onto the stone bench at the base of its stair, she poked her nose over the wall. On its other side was a tangle of winter forest dipping abruptly to a creek far below.

  “’Tis a steep drop. If you’re wanting to escape, lass, you’d best go by way o’ the drive.”

  He stood at the top of the gatehouse stair, his eyes hooded.

  “Is that an invitation, Urisk, or a threat?”

  “Whichever you please.”

  “It is an impressive castle. Do you hide the maidens in the dungeons?”

  “Aye.” A one-sided smile transformed his lips.

  Amarantha’s fingers clung to the rock wall.

  He descended the stairs to stand before the bench.

  “Come inside an’ I’ll introduce you to the lot o’ them.” He offered his hand.

  Amarantha suspected he must think her a fool in all sorts of ways. But she was not such a fool as to welcome the touch of his hand that had caressed her breast. Gathering her skirts in all ten of her fingers, she climbed down from the bench.

  He flexed his hand and dropped it to his side.

  “Duke!” came a man’s bellow from across the forecourt. “’Tis a fine thing you’ve done, opening your castle to us!”

  From a gate on the far side of the forecourt, Mr. Tate, Mrs. Tate, and their three daughters appeared.

  “Oh!” Libby said. “You have invited our friends too.”

  “Welcome to Haiknayes, Miss Shaw,” the duke said. “Doctor.”

  “It is an honor to be here, Your Grace,” Dr. Shaw said.

  “An honor indeed!” Mr. Tate exclaimed. “Ha ha! Already chased my gout away! Loch Irvine, I might just have to capitulate to your demands about my ships after all.” He had florid cheeks and a jovial air.

  “Such a charming castle,” Mrs. Tate drawled as though she owned one herself. The daughter of a minor English baronet, and full of her own consequence, she had married her noble blood to Calum Tate’s Scottish mercantile fortune and constantly made certain everybody remembered it.

  “Papa wished us to come,” Jane said quietly to Amarantha. “He and the duke are doing business, and he said he could not bear to be even a day without us.”

  “Your Grace,” Libby said. “May we see the collection without delay?”

  “Without delay it’ll be.”

  A narrow flight of exterior stairs led up into the fortress. From the entrance foyer they went into an enormous hall. Two stories high, with giant hearths at either end, it was of baronial dimensions and magnificent. An enormous table dominated the center of the room, tapestries covered the walls, and the sofa and chairs before the fireplace, along with the pelt of a great beast that decorated the floor, looked soft and inviting. Firelight glinted off two full suits of armor tucked in niches.

  “This way, Miss Shaw,” he said, gesturing to a door to a spiral stairwell. They all followed, climbing the tightly winding steps. At the top landing he pushed the door wide.

  Libby passed by him and her gasp echoed.

  From one side of the castle to the opposite was one large room, its ceiling a vaulted arch. Sunlight illumined dozens of glass cases bursting with bones, skulls, and rocks, jars of dried flowers and leaves, and bottles of murky liquid.

  “Good gracious.” Mrs. Tate lifted a kerchief to her nose.

  “It is even better than you led me to believe,” Libby exclaimed, and fell to her knees before a crate. “Do you see this? I believe it is the skeleton of a raccoon, an animal I have only seen in books. But it has no identifying label. There is work to be done here.”

  Iris drew a jar out of a case. “Look, Libby. An ear!”

  Libby pulled her head out of a crate, objects clutched in each hand. “A fortnight will hardly suffice to catalogue everything in this room, even with Iris and Amarantha helping. Iris, take care. The wings of a desiccated bat can be extraordinarily fragile.”

  “Your Grace,” Dr. Shaw said at the duke’s side. “Thank you.”

  “’Tis my pleasure,” he said, but his gaze came to Amarantha.

  “Jane Tate is not as empty-headed as she pretends to be,” Libby said as Amarantha returned her writing materials to their case.

  Morning sunshine glimmered through the thick fortress window frame of Amarantha’s bedchamber. Everything about the castle seemed both harsh and gentle: vast halls and dark rooms built of cold stone covered with colorful tapestries; plain furniture adorned with rich draperies and soft linens; simple roasts served on gilded dishware; vast hearths blazing with warmth, and chilly stone nooks perfect for hiding; and the castle’s master himself, dark and gruff and short of conversation yet gracious to all and unquestionably affectionate to Libby and Iris Tate.

  “After dinner last night she spoke intelligently about Mr. Scott’s latest novel,” Libby continued. “I was surprised you remained so quiet on the subject. I heard you discussing that novel with Tabitha last week. I thought you liked it.”

  “Oh, after all of those hours in the carriage yesterday I was famished.” Amarantha took up her shawl and went to the door. “My mouth was filled with cakes.”

  “Ha ha, as Mr. Tate would say. It is obvious that you and the duke have met before.”

  Amarantha’s heartbeats skipped. “Is it?”

  “I wish you would tell me why you did not speak all evening. I know you cannot possibly be frightened of him.”

  “There you are wrong. I am positively terrified.”

  “Not on my account. You don’t believe that he abducts maidens, do you?”

  “Absolutely not. It is clear to me that he has no intention of abducting you.” Adopting her, perhaps, and possibly Iris Tate as well. He was not yet even thirty but the pleasure he seemed to take in them seemed so genuinely paternal.

  “Good, for I would think you as silly as Cynthia Tate.” She went into the stairwell. “He said that the library contains a volume of his father’s illustrations. I should retrieve that before we begin working.” She opened a door.

  A veritable trove of bookshelves appeared before them, stacked with volumes.

  “Magnificent!” Libby exclaimed.

  “Yet I haven’t even spoken a word,” came a man’s voice from across the room. “But my nurse always did tell me I had remarkably good bone structure.”

  He lounged in a chair by the hearth. He was handsome, young, and neither English nor Scottish: his tongue, skin, and features marked him quite obviously a foreigner.

  “Oh! Who are you?” Libby said.

  He lifted black brows. “I might ask you the same.”

  “Then ask it.”

  “Alas, I cannot. For every mote of my attention is engaged in enjoying the vision of you beneath that monstrous sculpture of Saint George hanging above the door. Like an angel at the feet of the triumphant Lucifer. Light and dark. Beauty and grotesque. It is positively Caravaggesque.”

  “Caravaggesque is not a word, at least not in English,” Libby said. “You might, however, say Caravaggio-like. And Lucifer was not, of course, triumphant.”

  “He won a kingdom of his own in the end. I should think that counts as a triumph.”

  Libby crossed the threshold and craned her neck to peer up at the stone carving over the lintel. “Saint George did not fight an angel, rather a dragon.”

  “I stand corrected,” he murmured.

  “I hope we are not disturbing you, sir,” Amarantha said. “We have come in search of a single book.”

  “Be my guest.” His gaze followed Libby across the room.

  “Here it is,” Libby said, plucking forth a volume. “Precisely where the duke said it would be.”

  “I should like to draw you,” the man said.

  “Draw me?” Libby said.

  He nodded.

  “A caricature?”

  “I do not draw caricatures.”

  “You cannot possibly wish to draw a portrait of me. I have no remarkable features
or distinguishing physical characteristics to make a portrait interesting,” she said, opening the volume. “Unless you are an uninteresting person, I suppose, who prefers regular features to unusual features.” She glanced up at him again. “Are you?”

  “I believe I am now becoming one.”

  “Why did you not stand when we entered the room? Your English is excellent and your clothing is fine. In English society, gentlemen are required to stand when ladies enter a room. I am not a lady, of course. Amarantha is the daughter of an earl, although she doesn’t remind people of it, unlike Mrs. Tate, who reminds everybody who will listen that she is the daughter of a baronet. You must know you should have.”

  “I believe a question lurked somewhere in there.” A smile played about his lips.

  “I am asking if men in your homeland are not required to stand when ladies enter a room.”

  “In my home, never. Would you like me to stand?”

  “No,” Libby said as though surprised. “I am merely curious that you did not.”

  He set his book aside. Taking up a walking stick with a silver handle and clutching the chair arm with his other hand, slowly he stood. He was lean and very elegantly dressed, and his hand was tight about the cane: the straining knuckles whitened his dark skin. “You may now cast away your curiosity and be at ease,” he said.

  “Oh,” she said. “I beg your pardon.”

  “Do not. Contrition is entirely inappropriate on the face of an angel.”

  “You are teasing me, aren’t you?”

  “I might be,” he said.

  Snapping the book shut, Libby left the room.

  “Good day, sir,” Amarantha said, and followed her friend.

  She found Libby in the room at the top of the castle.

  “A Luna Moth! Extraordinary!” Libby said. “Where is Iris? I asked her to come up directly after breakfast.”

  “Here I am! Papa and Dr. Shaw have ridden out with the duke to hunt birds for dinner. Dr. Shaw said Papa should not ride, but Papa said his foot feels capital and anyway it’s much more pleasant to talk about business in the saddle than indoors. I cannot understand why, when I should think business is prodigiously dull no matter where one talks about it.”