The Devil’s Due by Boucher, Rita (free reads txt) 📗

“He left you in rather dire circumstances it seems,” he remarked, looking around the moonlit room at the gobbling, bleating crowing circus of feathers and fur. “Or are you merely aping the latest fashion? I have heard that the Duchess of Oldenberg maintains a zoological ménage.”

“’Twas the storm what knocked down the henhouse, see,” Daisy began to explain, bristling at the implied disparagement of her housekeeping abilities. “And the goat’s pen was near a wreck . . .” Her voice trailed off beneath the one-eyed man’s quelling gaze.

Her captor’s silent stare sparked Kate’s flagging resolution. Time was passing and Anne might wake to find herself alone in the dark. The child would likely come looking for her. “We have not much,” she said rapidly. “But I will give you the little money that we have if you will leave us in peace.”

“Money?” Duncan said, feeling strangely fascinated. He could feel her heart pounding a drumming tattoo, belying her courageous facade. She was an excellent liar, but then how many women were not? “Ah yes, money . . . But a trifle compared to the other riches that I have found.” He raised his free hand to brush her cheek. “MacLean’s wife, you say?”

The woman trembled at his touch. “Take the money and go,” she said, her voice hoarse as his fingers traced the arch of her throat. “I warn you sirrah, the magistrate will deal harshly with a man who trifles with a lord’s wife.”

“Even a dead lord?” he asked, patent amusement in his voice as he pulled her closer.

“Especially a dead lord,” she retorted, gasping as he brought her up against the hard length of him. “My husband was a war hero.”

“Oh, he was a war hero?” Duncan gave Fred a slow wink. The Cockney grinned.

“Duncan saved his regiment in the battle of Talavera,” she spoke quickly, fighting against his grip, but he just pulled her closer. “They decorated him for valor.”

That much was true. The wench’s story was getting more interesting by the minute, Duncan thought, enjoying the sensation as she struggled against him. He put his arms around her, savoring her warmth and the faint scent of lavender in her hair.

“He was killed while trying to overcome a French artillery position in Badajoz” she said, trying to recall all that she could about her late husband’s fallen comrade. “He was blown to pieces, so mangled that there was nearly nothing left for burial.”

“Is that the story they told?” Duncan asked in amusement. “Surely they could have done far better than that? MacLean was far too intelligent for such foolish heroics, I hear. There was no better man when it came to protecting his hide.”

“Not always,” Fred said sourly, his comment punctuated by a plaintive bleat from the goats in the corner.

“Aye, true enough,” Duncan said, his eye flinty as he recalled his failure. “Every man has his flaws.”

“If you knew of my husband, sir, you certainly ought not to mock,” the woman declared, as his fingers splayed against the small of her back. In the chill of the unlit room, he could feel the warmth of her body burning him like a brand even through the thick stuff of her nightgown. “My husband was The MacLean of Eilean Kirk. Harm me, and I swear his ghost will haunt you.”

“The MacLean of Eilean Kirk!” Duncan drew back in a mock display of dismay. “Then it is true what they say of MacLeans?”

“Aye,” Fred’s prisoner pronounced darkly. “‘Tis a pact with the devil they have. The MacLeans come back from the dead, they do, to take vengeance upon their enemies.”

“How very tiresome!” Duncan cupped his erstwhile wife’s chin with his hand. He could feel her shiver and felt a twinge of regret. He reminded himself that she deserved to be punished for her ridiculous pretense. Had she chosen to tell him the truth, he might well have let her go, but the affront of an outright lie deserved some consequence. “Nonetheless, I have heard that the MacLeans are cursed with the nine lives of a cat. I have also been informed that their taste in women has always been the finest.” He brought his lips down upon hers, tasting the sweetness of that lying mouth.

It was a kiss meant to frighten. Duncan crushed her to him, ravaging with calculated lust, storming her as if she was a castle under siege, demanding nothing less than total surrender. But somewhere in the midst of the attack, he lost all constraint; premeditated passion was replaced by a strange longing to lose himself in her softness; to pretend for a brief interval that this woman truly desired him, to dispel the utter loneliness that had dogged him for as long as he could remember.

His harsh and demanding assault was like nothing Kate had ever experienced. She could barely breathe before the bombardment began anew. The stranger’s hands tangled in her hair, keeping her captive. It was shocking to find that a part of her was responding to his caresses, almost eager to explore these new sensations that shook her to her very marrow. There had only been one man in her life and her late husband’s kisses had been perfunctory and gentle, as if she had been some fragile bit of porcelain, delicate enough to break.

Suddenly, the intruder’s tongue began to plunder, consuming her like a fire raging out of control and every last trace of curiosity was banished. Terror welled up within her, but she knew that she could not give way to her fear. Anne, she reminded herself. Think of Anne.

Duncan felt her stiffen, begin to struggle against him and he knew that he had achieved his aim. Slowly, reluctantly, he released her expecting to see utter horror in those emerald depths. Instead, there was glittering rage, so strong and feral that he half-expected her to hiss and strike him.

“Are you quite finished?” Kate asked, wiping her hand across her