Disciplined by the Duke Page 20

  Please, God, let her be safe.

  He and Darkwing traversed acres and acres of land and for the first time ever Marcus cursed the size of his holdings. It was too easy for a person to get lost. Why had he never thought of that before now?

  The crash of waves thundered over the storm as Marcus drove Darkwing towards the cliffs overlooking the sea. She wouldn’t be stupid enough to walk along the cliffs in the rain. The loose soil crumbled when wet, sliding forty feet down onto the rocky beach. If she slipped . . . The pain in his chest spread to his gut. No, she would be fine. He’d make sure of that.

  He pulled back on the reins on the next ridge, both he and his mount sucking in lungfuls of air. Sweeping back the wet hair that fell in his eyes, he kicked his heels into Darkwing’s sides. And immediately yanked on the reins.

  The horse snorted in disgust and swung his head. Marcus ignored his friend’s temper. The large oak down to his left, about ten feet from the precipice. That lump in front of it was a rock, wasn’t it?

  “Sweet Jesus,” he whispered, and sent Darkwing flying down towards it. Towards her. Because now he could see clearly it wasn’t a rock, but a heap of black skirts around a still body.

  Before his horse had even come to a full stop, Marcus was on the ground, kneeling beside Liz. He rolled her from her side to her back, and cursed when the cold skin of her cheek met his questing fingers. “Elizabeth? Liz, answer me, damn it.”

  She opened her eyes, and his gut unclenched. A crease appeared on her brow. “I fell.”

  That was it? All the explanation she would give him? He pressed his lips together and shrugged out of his greatcoat. “Do you hurt anywhere?” Running his hands down her body, he didn’t feel any broken bones, didn’t see any blood.

  “Just cold,” she whispered, and shut her eyes.

  Lifting her upper body from the wet ground, he wrapped her in the thick wool. “Keep your eyes open,” he demanded. He stood with her in his arms and turned for Darkwing. The horse, bless his soul, hadn’t moved from where Marcus had dismounted, and stood patiently waiting for his master’s return.

  If only humans were so cooperative. He hefted Liz to the front of the saddle, climbed up behind her, pulled her close to his chest. Shudders wracked her small body. Her eyes were open, mere slits, but at least she was conscious. Tucking his greatcoat as tightly around her body as possible, Marcus pointed his mount towards home and took off at a gallop.

  Darkwing’s hooves ate up the distance, the horse’s gait sure on the muddy ground. The tremors of his slight burden increased, grew racking, and Marcus dug his heels even harden into the horse’s sides. His eyes became blinded by the horizontal rain and the air whipping past. He gave himself over to Darkwing’s care, knowing his horse would get them safely home. What he would do once they reached Hartsworth he had no idea. What he would do with his little bird past getting her warm, and dry, and safe he couldn’t fathom.

  But something had changed. When he’d spied her limp form huddled on the wet ground, something had changed within himself. She was no longer just one of his servants, could never hold that place again. Perhaps she hadn’t been that for a while and the shock of seeing her thus finally made him admit that to himself.

  His fingers were as cold and hard as ice, his grip frozen on the reins in one hand and on Liz’s waist in his other. Her lids had fallen shut, and Marcus did his best to shake her. Although if the rattle of their race across his fields didn’t rouse her his attempts would do no better. “Liz!” His shout was torn from his mouth and carried away on the wind. “Wake up,” he demanded hoarsely. Her only response was to sag more completely into his hold.

  His chest squeezed when the stone edifice of his home crested into view. He guided his horse around the east wing, heading for the nearest entry where he knew servants would be waiting, ready for his commands. Darkwing sent a spray of mud slopping against the stone wall as he skidded to a stop in front of the kitchen door. Mrs. Johnson and two of her helpers looked up, mouths in identical o’s of surprise when he stormed into the warm room, Liz a shivering mass in his arms.

  “Mrs. Johnson, get Mr. Todd. I want a hot bath drawn in my chambers immediately. And have him send someone for the doctor. I want him on hand in case we need him.” He shifted Liz in his arms, the strain of the past hour catching up with his muscles.

  “Your chambers . . .” The cook’s gaze darted from his face to the sodden bundle in his arms and back again. Her mouth snapped shut and she nodded her head. “Right away.” She turned for the stairs, Marcus following close behind, and yelled back into the kitchen, “Girls, get the water going!”

  With an efficiency that no longer surprised the duke, but still managed to impress, every door was thrown open as he reached it, the whole house made aware of his destination and urgency. Before he’d even laid Liz down on the settee in his bedroom’s antechamber, a row of men carrying buckets of steaming water and a copper tub began preparing a bath.

  He glanced down. Liz was awake and looking around the room, forehead wrinkled in confusion.

  “What am I doing here?”

  At least, that’s what Marcus thought she asked. Between the noise the bustle of servants made and the chattering of her teeth, it was hard to tell. “We’re getting you warm. Don’t move,” he told her, and joined Mr. Todd at the entrance to his rooms.

  “Your Grace, the doctor has been sent for. What else can I do?” The steward cast a concerned look at Liz, who had pushed herself to her elbows on the brocade sofa.

  “Thank you.” Fires popped up in the hearths in each of his rooms. The stream of servants began to dwindle, their tasks complete. Marcus gripped the door and watched the last footman leave. “Settle the doctor in one of the parlors when he arrives and give him whatever he wants. I’ll let you know if he needs to be sent up.”

  “Of course, Your Grace.” He bent at the waist and was gone, with nary a murmur or questioning look in his eye over the impropriety of the situation. Marcus took a moment to appreciate the privilege a dukedom gave him, for this was surely as improper a situation as could occur. The master of the house was alone with a young female servant, and everyone knew his purpose in being so.

  He curled his fingers. Time to get to that purpose. He stalked towards her until she had to crane her neck to look at him. A shudder sent his greatcoat sliding off one damp shoulder. He tore the rest of the garment from her and reached for her apron, stained brown with dirt. “All right. Clothes come off now.”

  “Wait . . . what?”

  He tossed the apron next to his coat and started working at the buttons at her throat.

  She flicked her eyes from the tub to his face to his hands working her dress off. Her forehead smoothed. “Wait, I can”—she cleared the hoarseness from her throat—“I can do this.” Her cold fingers pushed uselessly at him, unable to even grip his hands.

  “Of course you can.” Tired of the endless buttons, he gripped each edge of the sagging dress and tore it open across her middle, baring her sodden underclothes.

  She gasped and tried to stand. Marcus didn’t even have to push her down to keep her where she was. Her body was too cold to respond to her cues.

  “You couldn’t even hold my hand right now, much less remove your clothes and boots.” He swatted her fingers away. “Now hush up and stop getting in my way. If you persist I will get four of my men up here to hold you down while I cut the clothing from your body. The choice is yours.”

  Unlike her muscles, her voice suffered no damage from the cold. “You overbearing brute.” She tried to grab his hands again. “Just because you’re a duke doesn’t mean that you can—” A shudder washed over her, and she tried to burrow back under her wet clothes.

  A loud rent snapped her eyes open, and Marcus ripped her shift and petticoats down her legs. She was bare except for her drawers, socks, and boots, her skin waxy and ashen.

  He knelt and yanked off one boot and sock. “Can’t do what? Disrobe you?” He removed her other boot.
“Apparently I can.” Her damp drawers fought his efforts to pull them down over her hips, but soon joined their brethren on the ground.

  Standing, he kicked the linens away and reached for her hands. “Into the tub with you,” he said, pulling her upright. Her knees sagged and she collapsed against his chest. Placing his arm behind her knees, he lifted her, turning for the steaming water.

  She pushed at his shoulder. “I am perfectly cap-p-p-able of b-b-bathing myself.”

  He ground his teeth. “We are going to have a conversation about what you think you are capable of, and soon.” Lowering her into the hot water, he ignored her whimper and mad scramble to climb out of the tub. “After you thaw.” He held her down until she settled into the heat. Once her body relaxed he released her, drawing his arms back slowly to make sure she didn’t sink under the water.

  She glared at him, but didn’t move from her position clinging to the side of the tub.

  Marcus took a deep breath. Then another. His lungs expanded fully for the first time since he set out after his wayward maid. She was safe. In his room. In his care. He watched, arms crossed over his chest, as her shivers began to subside and the skin that he could see started to pinken. She would be all right. This time.

  He frowned.

  Liz was sensible. Even tempered. But she had a curious streak, hidden passions, which must have overridden her common sense and led her out walking in inclement weather. She had a foolish or reckless side that could obviously harm her. And that was something, Marcus was beginning to realize, he would not permit.

  He rocked onto the balls of his feet, feeling centered. Ever since James’s death, he took his duty to those around him as seriously as a case of smallpox. He was the eighth Duke of Montague, and he was responsible for the health and welfare of all those around him. Yes, he took his duty seriously, but until now he took no joy in it. No pride.

  As he looked at the raven-haired beauty in front of him, who even now was running her fingers through her wet locks trying to restore some semblance of order, chin lifted, all the while eyeing him as if he had decided to run naked through Prinny’s annual ball, something inside him shifted.

  She was his to take care of, his to protect. And he looked forward to every minute.

  Her fingers paused at a tangle in her hair. “What are you doing?”

  Marcus tossed his coat next to the wet spot on the settee her body had left, began to unknot his cravat. “Taking off my wet clothes. I don’t relish catching a chill, either.”

  Her fingers curled around the rim of the tub. “Uh, if you’ll hand me a bath sheet I’ll leave you to it.”

  “You’ll stay where you are until you are fully warmed.” He dragged his damp shirt over his head and sat on a chair to work off his boots.

  “I have fully warmed.” Her gaze fixed on his hands as he tugged the leather Hessians from his feet. “I feel quite warm now.”

  Marcus sank back in the chair, enjoying the feeling of the flames from the nearby fire on his bare chest and cold feet. “Let me rephrase. You will stay where you are until I deem you warm enough to get out.”

  The sparks from her eyes warmed him more than the fire. Anger meant she couldn’t be feeling too ill.

  Marcus let his muscles release their tension. “And I’ll sit here and enjoy the view.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Liz was steaming, and it wasn’t from the bath. How dare he? Even if he was a duke and her employer he shouldn’t . . .

  Her shoulders sagged beneath the water’s surface. Lord, she was tired. Her five-minute walk had extended to five minutes more, and five minutes more, the answer to her problems never arriving. When she’d stumbled and fallen, it had almost been a relief. Why bother getting up? She didn’t know where to go. As the rain pounded down upon her, she willed the softening earth to sink down beneath her body, swallow her up. Where she didn’t have to make life-and-death decisions. Where she could rest.

  So why was she fighting Montague? She peeked over at him, her eyes tracing the bulges and valleys of his chest. A soft matting of golden hair across the hard muscle looked soft to the touch. It arrowed down his abdomen into a thin line that delved beneath his trousers. She snapped her eyes up from his crotch, ashamed of where her thoughts had wandered. The outrageousness of the situation struck her anew. She was naked in the bedroom of a duke while he lounged topless in a chair five feet from her, chin lazily propped on his fist. When had her life become so peculiar?

  She wanted to sink deeper into the bath, let her head rest back against the rim, and forget she’d ever seen the letter. Her heart tripped in her chest. Had he discovered the swap she’d made? Was that why he went after her?

  He continued to stare at her, unmoving. She remained facing forward, denying the urge to glance back and forth between Montague and his coat, wanting to throw herself at his feet and ask for mercy, for help. Her fist coiled tighter and tighter. She was in over her head, but she had to forge on. Didn’t she? Her sister was depending upon her. She was going to betray her country, betray the man in front of her.

  Her palm burned from the half-moons her nails dug. Her throat closed until she grew light-headed. Right or wrong, she had to make a decision, and she couldn’t do so under the penetrating glare of the duke. She had to get away from Montague before she broke.

  Bringing her knees to her chest, she pushed up off the sides of the tub. Water sloshed around her calves as she stood. In another life, her nakedness in front of a man would have shamed her. It no longer mattered. He had already seen her, had probably seen hundreds of women’s naked bodies. Her body might be revealed, but at least her intentions remained hidden.

  She hoped.

  “I’m leaving.” She carefully stepped over the side, not letting herself cower back into the tub when Montague rose and crowded her.

  “I say you’re not.” He grasped her shoulders, her skin flaring to life where he touched her.

  “Well, I no longer listen to what you say. As of this moment, I’m leaving your service.” She jutted her chin up, trying to look as though she weren’t about to break.

  He raised one eyebrow. “Is that so?”

  “Yes.” She saw a folded bath sheet on a side table and ducked under his arms to snag it. Montague plucked it from her hands.

  Wrapping the soft cloth around her shoulders, he gently rubbed droplets of water from her skin. Before she could sink into his touch like a cat curling into its master’s hand, he said, “How fortunate for me.”

  “Fortunate?” Her breasts brushed against his warm skin, the fine hairs on his chest tickling her sensitive nipples. The heady sensation made her dizzy. “You’re that anxious to be rid of me?”

  His smile was slow to stretch across his face. It was all teeth, a predator’s smile, and Liz shivered. Wrapping his arms around her, Montague used one hand to wipe her body dry. The flannel sheet scraped across her bottom, again and again, and she dropped her forehead on his shoulder. She should push away, leave, but her feet would no longer carry her. Each determined caress, every swipe of the flannel on her overheated body, stole a little more of her resolve. It felt too good in his arms to fight.

  “No, my sweet little bird. I’m not ridding myself of you. Quite the contrary.” He pushed her hair over her shoulders to fall down her back, and began drying it. He brought the sheet to the back of her head, and kneaded her skull. Her eyes slid closed on a happy sigh. “But it is time you learned what you can and cannot do. Life is too fragile to waste on reckless behavior.” His voice was low and soothing, a contrast to his condescending words.

  The fire popped loudly, but she barely noticed. The bath left her feeling languid, boneless. Or maybe that was Montague’s caresses. The duke swept her up and carried her into his bedchamber to a silk-covered love seat in front of a roaring hearth. She burrowed into his embrace.

  “Now that you’ve warmed up, it’s time for your consequences.”

  Liz jerked her head back, startled. She shouldn’t have b
een. Cause and effect. Actions and consequences. That was how he thought. How Montague lived his life. But she didn’t want to think about consequences anymore. Or what her actions would lead to.

  The duke started to turn her in his arms, but she resisted. “No, Your Grace. I . . . I don’t want this.” Her breath was ragged, and she rubbed her thighs together restlessly.

  Pressing his lips into a firm line, he examined her down to her toes and back, paying special attention to her pebbled nipples, her heaving chest.

  Liz swallowed. He saw everything. Her words might lie, but her body couldn’t. Slowly, as though reaching for the reins of a frightened horse, Montague lifted one calloused finger, circled the puckered flesh of her breast.

  Her core clenched. Drawing in a shaky breath, she tried to fight back her desire. How easy it would be to give in. To give her body over to him. Let him carry her burdens.

  An impossible dream.

  Montague looked up, stared unflinchingly into her eyes. Her vision tunneled to his face, his expression, and Liz’s heart tore open in her chest. This was no longer a man merely looking to give and receive pleasure. Concern for her was etched across every fine line. Affection in his every caress. Montague cared for her, his lying little chambermaid, the woman sent to betray him.

  Anger flared, quick and deep. Her body burned with it. If he’d been like any other peer her task would have been easier. He should have been shallow, self-absorbed, an easy target. What gave him the right to make her fall in love? With a damned duke, no less. The unjustness of it boiled like water under her skin.

  She lashed out, her palm striking his jaw, tried to push out of his arms. Wished she could crawl out of her own skin.

  His expression never wavered. Pinning her hands together, he flipped her so her stomach lay across one thick thigh. He hooked his other leg around her own, trapping them. Her hair brushed the carpet, blocking most of her vision.

  The sound of the slap rang out before her brain registered the sweet heat of the spank. She raised her torso perpendicular to the floor until his large hand spanned her lower back, pressed her back down. “Your Grace!”