Chapter 3
The rugged, scarred man towering before her in naught but a simple, linen sheet tucked about his chiseled waist was nothing like the man she had imagined. For one, she had imagined that the great Duke of Raventon would be a far older man. A man who had seen years of trouble for sure.
But she had not imagined that he would have a face of a devil and one that could tempt any woman into sin. The cut of his cheekbones might steal a woman’s breath away as would the way his black hair danced playfully across his forehead.
And his amber eyes. . . his eyes looked as if he could see into her very soul.
Yet here the handsome devil stood, bared before her, muscles, scars, and towering height veritably naked. For even the linen, draped about him like a great kilt of old, was oddly revealing with the light of the fire behind him.
Oh, he was glorious, indeed.
She had come prepared to relay her tale to a stoic figure. But now that he’d asked for it so blatantly, she was uncertain how to begin. For here in a fire-lit room which held every comfort, she felt entirely out of place.
That was a feeling she was not at all accustomed to. After all, she was not a stranger to luxury or beautiful things. But here in his perfect rooms, in his rough form. . . she felt as if all the air had been burned away from her lungs.
In the past, she had always been bold. And straightforward in her words. Yet, this man, so beautiful to behold, held a danger to him. But she should not have been surprised, she realized. For why would her aunt send her to a man who could not create a great deal of feeling? Surely, a man who could protect her would be intimidating and powerful?
To her horror, retreat suddenly seemed an appealing possibility. For he was so powerful that she felt her tongue tie.
Do with her? What would he do with her, indeed?
She’d come far, too far for that now, hadn’t she?
No. She was no coward and, now that she was here, she could not turn and run. After her mad dash from her home, there was no turning back. No, the only thing was to begin. Yet, even she, strong as she was, was moved by the sight of his mangled body. She could not help but wonder what wars he had been through, what things he had seen, what demons worked in his soul.
Quickly, committed now, she took off her gloves and took the glass of brandy from him. The heavy, cool crystal rubbed gently against her bare skin which had been chilled for days. Taking courage in hand, she took a deep swallow. The rich notes of the French liquor washed over her tongue. Spicy and warm, it raced down to her empty belly, blooming with sudden warmth. Burning its way along her body, she could not help but wonder if his touch would burn as pleasantly. It was a mad thought. How could such a thought occur to her at such a time? Devil take it, she was here for her life, not wicked thoughts.
In her defense, she had never seen such a man. Never in all her life had she laid eyes on such a creature. Velvet skin poured over his sinew. He made no move to cover himself further, despite the chill air, as if he were curious as to how she would react to him.
She refused to seem intimidated by the rough scars of his body. If anything, they increased her curiosity and made her feel an affinity for him. Much to her relief, she felt certain he was not a man who would shudder in fear or disbelief at what she had come to say.
The words danced on her tongue, words she had traveled the length and breadth of two countries to say. Her entire body was a tangle of nerves and apprehension.
What if he turned her away? What if he could not help her? What would she do then? All her life, she had never been so fettered by doubts. She had always known what to do, what to say. But now, to her great sadness, her life was nothing like it was before.
So, she lifted her chin and forced herself to speak.
“Yer Grace, my story does my family little credit. Ye see, I am running. I am escaping my brother.”
“Go on,” he said, his voice even as he slowly sipped his brandy, the firelight framing his big body in a golden, tawny glow.
He was completely unshaken. His words were so calm, it was as if he were used to hearing such things daily, hourly even.
She licked her lips, bracing herself for the worst of it. “I am an Argyle, Yer Grace. This sort of distress is no’ something I have ever had to trouble over before. I have always been part of a wealthy family. I have never kent concern where money comes to mind. I kent I would be taken care of, whatever befell my parents. But I never thought that my verra good luck should come to be my misfortune.”
“I am intrigued,” he said swirling his brandy patiently. The liquor danced in his snifter. The amber color sparkled in the fire. To her surprise, she realized his voice was just as intoxicating as the liquid in the cup.
Intrigued, he had said. She supposed her tale would intrigue a person. Her story was as strange and awful as any that might come from the pages of a novel. Would he believe her? Would he think her mad?
She bit the inside of her cheek then said firmly, “I believe my brother is trying to kill me.”
The words fell from her mouth like stones, each one landing solidly in the air. Each one painful to her ears. And every word, she still struggled to believe herself. But the experience of the last month had proven her fears true. She had to believe her own suspicions. Too many accidents had befallen her as of late to pretend she was not at risk any longer.
He stared at her for a long moment. This was his chance to send her packing. To laugh. To throw back his head and declare the absurdity of her statement. Instead, the duke leveled her with a hard stare. That stare lingered for but a second before he arched a dark brow and said softly, “I believe you.”
Relief flashed through her. She had not realized how prepared she had been for him to laugh at her, chuck her out, or worse, look upon her with disdain, cursing her to the winds for a foolish lass.
“Even so,” he continued. “We cannot deny that this is a very serious accusation that you are making, my lady. It will not be easy to deal with, given the predispositions of the powers that be to take the gentleman’s side.”
The word gentleman echoed through the room with a surprising hint of poison. Unlike most, the duke seemed to understand that ladies weren’t hysterics.
The relief that she had felt stuttered a bit all the same, like a candle’s flame guttering in wax. He was right. This would be no easy thing.
She squared her shoulders. “I am well aware of it, Yer Grace. But I wouldna have run from Scotland so wildly if I was no’ genuinely in fear for my life. Nor would I have risked the ire of my brother and so many if I had felt I’d had another course of action.”
He nodded then drank, the liquid leaving a sheen on his lips.
The Duke of Raventon’s gaze narrowed, trying to make sense of her. “And from what I gather from your rather vague statement about your good fortune, you believe your brother is trying to kill you for your funds?”
“I do,” she confessed, horrified anew to hear the words spoken. “Though it breaks my heart, he has not turned out as a young man should. He has been dissipated and ill-judged when it comes to his own financial situation. He has put our estates in great jeopardy. The bill collectors are now common sight upon our lands.”
The duke’s chest rose and fell in a slow breath, a remarkable shift of sinew.
Did his skin glow? Or was it merely the flames upon his tawny chest?
Diana blinked, desperate that he should not notice her staring.
Some men were quite odd about women, thinking if she admired a man’s physique she was naught but a whore and free game for his pleasure. He did not seem such a one, but she would not take her chances. Even so, how could she not notice the remarkable nature of his form?
She swallowed, forcing the natural thought, given his state of undress, away. She would not seem affected.
She had nothing against pleasure. But she had not been and never would be free game. In her way of thinking, no woman should ever be naught but the plaything of a man.
But that was not the way of the world, and a good many men gave not a fig for a woman herself as a person.
The duke seemed different. But in her experience, it was impossible to know the nature of a person’s heart. Not truly. Hadn’t her brother proven that?
“You seem discomfited,” the duke said suddenly, his voice resonating a low note that rumbled through the room, veritably caressing her.
She straightened, took another swallow of brandy then dared to point out, “Are you no’ cold, Yer Grace? While I am quite used to ice-cold rooms, in Torridon even a grand fire canna warm the air a few feet from the hearth. Surely, a London man feels the cold. Surely, ye shall catch yer death.”
His brow furrowed as he took her words in but then, slowly, oh so very slowly, his lips crooked in a grin and he laughed.
Laughed?
What a foolish description for the booming, rich, rolling sound that emanated from his godlike being.
“I didna mean to amuse ye, Yer Grace.”
His laugh dissipated and he filled his brandy again then crossed to her, having the temerity to top hers up without question.
The spice of him filled her senses and, suddenly, it felt as if she could see nothing but his granite chest. He was so. . . immense.
And yet, she did not think he meant to frighten her.
“Ah, my dear lady, I have not been so amused in some time. Do you think all London men shiver in the cold and spend their lives wrapped in the finest wool?”
She shrugged. For all she’d been told, London men, Sassenachs, were weak of body, prone to the chill and ever complaining of the good cold air when it entered their lungs.
“You do!” he declared, reading her thoughts with ease. “Well, I am not cold. Or if I am, I don’t feel it,” he said softly. “Are you chilled?”
She gave a quick shake of her head.
“Of course not,” he murmured. “You’re bonnie and braw, forged by the north winds, the sea and the bens.”
She blinked. “Have ye been to Torridon, Yer Grace?”
He drew in a long breath as his gaze lifted to some unknown place.
“Yer Grace?” she queried, wondering where he had journeyed to in his mind.
“I’ve been to a good many places,” he said roughly. “Now, on to our plan.”
She all but danced with glee. He was going to help her!
He eyed her up and down slowly. “You don’t seem a foolish chit.”
She snorted.
His lips quirked in a pleased grin. “Nor meek.”
At that, she grinned sheepishly. “I have always been told, I’ve spirit.”
“Spirit?” He arched a brow. “Is that the word for it?”
She tensed. Would he castigate her for it as so many had done?
“Whatever it is, I like it,” he said openly. “And I hope you hold to it. It will see you through this life.”
She beamed up at him, surprised by his approval. “What’s to be done then?”
“We have few choices,” he said plainly. “Do you fancy the life of a nun?”
“I do no’,” she snapped furiously.
His brows lifted at her vehemence. “That seems to have hit a particularly ill feeling.”
She studied her glass. “If ye must ken, my brother has done all in his power to shore me up this last year in my rooms. And quite truthfully, I love the pleasures of the world too much for a cloistered life.”
“Do you, by God?” he asked softly, his gaze wandering over her face.
She nearly blushed at his consideration. “I like wine, chocolate, poetry, and a dance. I’ll no deny it,” she readily informed him. “And I’d like children one day, so it’s no’ a nun’s life for me.”
He nodded with all seriousness. “I never would have sent you to a convent. I’m not a believer in shutting women away. But, immediately, you might have to choose some isolation if you wish to avoid your brother. He has your care?”
“I have my majority,” she breathed, relieved. “Still, he has far more power over me than I’d like.”
The duke’s mouth tightened. “Women are often crushed under the wheel of men.”
She stared at him, hardly able to believe such a statement had slipped from his lips.
He caught her gaze. “I’ve seen it first-hand, Lady Diana. I know how easily women are destroyed in a world where they are naught but property. The question is, whose property will you be?”
He stared down at her for a long moment, his striking face suddenly serious. “It is really the only question a woman can reasonably ask in our times.”
She shuddered at his blunt assessment of the lot of women. And yet, he was not mistaken.
“My preference is to be my own property,” she confessed.
“Of course,” he said easily. “Who does not wish to be their own master? But few are. Even men. We are all ruled by some force.”
“Even ye?” she challenged.
He smiled sadly. “Even me, bonnie lass. I have a king and conscience and rules to guide me.”
She wasn’t sure what to make of him or his speech. For, she did understand that even the most powerful men could have their power taken. Had she not witnessed the results of the destruction of many of the great Highland clans?
“What is it, then, that ye suggest?” she asked, hating the indecision that had become her life. “I will no’ be my brother’s property, for he kens I canna be tamed. So, the only way he can get my money is through my death.”
There was a long silence as the duke drew his brandy snifter to his sinful lips and drank.
The entire process was remarkable. From the way the brandy slipped into his mouth, to the way his throat worked as he swallowed, and then the way his lips shone with the spicy liquor.
As he lowered his glass, he cocked his head to the side and said, “Become mine.” He leaned forward, his gaze dark and inscrutable. “Marry me.”