Claiming the Courtesan (15 page)

But if he was nothing to her, why had the sight of his tears, tears he wasn’t even aware he shed, cut her so deeply?

Some old sorrow plagued him. Some old sorrow that
taught him to hide his true feelings behind a mask of ruthless autocracy and perfect control.

She growled her exasperation. With him. With the situation. And with herself most of all. Why should she fret over him? All she wanted was to be free of him, immediately, utterly and forever.

She began to worry at a particularly stubborn root.

Last night, he’d given her sexual pleasure such as she’d never known. She’d never forgive him for it.

But worse, he’d opened a chasm in her heart. She could fight his strength and perhaps even win. But she had no defenses against his need.

She must get away before she did something really stupid.

Like fall in love with the oppressive tyrant who believed he owned her, body and soul. Damn him.

She gave the root a vicious tug, but still it didn’t budge.

“Whisht, lassie! You’ll do yourself a mischief!”

She looked up from her turbulent thoughts to find Hamish Macleish staring at her in consternation. In the outlandish local costume, he looked large and capable, and his bare legs under the kilt were straight and strong.

Earlier, Angus had been on guard duty. He’d tried to divert her from what he’d clearly thought was an inappropriate activity for the lady of the house. She’d pretended not to understand and had kept going.

She was surprised to see Hamish. He’d always studiously avoided her—probably because he was the only servant who spoke English. She couldn’t subvert people who didn’t understand a word she said.

“Good morning, Mr. Macleish.”

The angels had been remarkably deaf to her pleas of late. But perhaps they’d heard her last desperate prayer for escape.

“Good morning, my lady.” He stepped closer. “It’s gey stony soil for flowers. My Kate gave up.”

Verity stood and wiped her hands on the faded apron that protected her skirts. “Mr. Macleish, will you help me?”

“Aye, my lady. Although ye ken it’s a wee while since I’ve done any gardening.”

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.

Kylemore sat opposite her and reached out to pour the
wine. The hunting box was well stocked with life’s luxuries. For the first time, Verity reflected upon how such goods arrived. Surely not along that rough road over the mountains. There must be another way in. The loch perhaps.

“I find in my captivity, time hangs heavily on my hands,” she said pointedly, although she’d long ago given up hope of awakening any guilt over his crimes against her.

“I’ve asked him to help you tomorrow.” He shook his napkin out of its folds and placed it on his lap.

“Are you worried I’ll dig my way out unless you place a guard over me?” she asked acidly.

Kylemore’s affability made her nervous. She much preferred their unambiguously open conflict. He lifted his glass and leaned back with a negligent grace that tugged at her senses. Her determination to escape hardened. If she stayed and let her unwilling attraction have its way, she’d be lost forever.

Kate Macleish came in with a tureen of soup. When they were alone once more, Verity returned to hostilities. A sharp tongue hid the growing softness within, a softness she had every intention of stifling.

“Or perhaps you’re afraid I’ll come after you with a spade if you’re reckless enough to put gardening tools within reach.”

He put down his spoon. “Verity, you have a choice,” he said gently. “We eat, we talk, we pass the evening with an attempt at civility. Or we fuck. It’s up to you.”

Kylemore watched as her remarkable gray eyes widened. He’d have said that nothing could shock Soraya. But Verity was much less hardened by the life she’d led.

Hell, now even he was doing it. He had to stop thinking of her as two different people. He’d quickly guessed on the journey to the glen that in her mind she divided herself into
separate entities. Soraya, the notorious courtesan. And Verity, the woman who preserved an odd air of innocence whatever debaucheries he’d committed on her body.

Over the last few days, avoiding this cursed house had given him hours alone in the fresh air to puzzle over his captive.

He must have been out of his mind with thwarted lust when he’d found her in Whitby, or he would have realized immediately that she believed the virtuous widow was much closer to her real self than the glittering demimondaine was.

He’d abducted her to get his fascinating mistress back and to make her pay for her betrayal. Now the problem was that while he wanted to find Soraya in Verity, he also wanted to find Verity in Soraya.

God knew why. Soraya offered him all a sensible man wished for. A willing partner in bed. A sophisticated companion. No inconvenient emotional storms.

Whereas Verity…

Face it, Kylemore,
he told himself wryly.
Verity is sweet and vulnerable in ways Soraya never was. She’s gallant and honest and as luscious a peach as you could sink your teeth into. Verity banishes your nightmares. Verity gives you peace.

He wanted them both.

Last night, she’d finally surrendered to the sensual hunger between them. Even lost in his own release, he hadn’t mistaken her response. He only needed to seduce her into a malleable frame of mind once more. Then he’d convince her of the advantages of becoming the Duchess of Kylemore.

The advantages?

Sour amusement filled him. What were the advantages to marriage with him?

A troubled self-destructive husband who had spent his life in his own private hell?

Centuries of misery, madness, addiction in his bloodlines?

A future as a social pariah?

Alliance with the foul lout who bore the Kylemore title would disgrace the woman he now knew, whatever the world might think of the match.

Damn her
.

Across from him, he noted the droop of her graceful neck. Against the Elizabethan collar of her crimson gown, stiffened and raised at the back to frame her upswept hair, her face was as pale and sad as an effigy on a marble tomb.

There had been a subdued air to her all evening. He was used to her bristling at everything he said. He relied upon her prickly reactions to keep his damned inconvenient urge to cherish her in check. But tonight’s jibes contained a desperate edge, as if she forced herself to snipe and fight.

“Well?” he asked.

“As Your Grace wishes,” she said colorlessly, picking up her spoon and beginning to eat her soup.

He resisted the impulse to whisk her upstairs and make good his crude threat—anything to rouse her from despair. Her inner fire was doused and cold tonight, and the absence of its warmth left him frozen and alone.

Kylemore waited until after dinner before he asked the questions that really interested him, none of which fell into the category of civility, despite what he’d said earlier.

He lounged beside Verity on a settle in front of the fire, and a glass of port dangled from his fingers. Her glass of wine from dinner rested untouched on the table near her elbow. She’d hardly eaten any of the elaborate food Kate had prepared.

Confound it, he worried over the chit like a damned
nursemaid. Where the hell had the wicked Duke of Kylemore gone? He reminded himself with increasing desperation that his goal in this glen was revenge on a deceitful mistress.

Still, in the three months since she’d run away, it had niggled just how little he knew of her. He’d explored every inch of her delectable body, yet he had no idea where she’d grown up. He needed to learn what went on behind those beautiful silver eyes. That curiosity had become paramount last night.

Last night, when she’d insisted she hated him. Then held him safe against his nightmares.

“You never told me what caused you to adopt your profession,” he said with deliberate idleness.

A haunted expression fleetingly crossed her face. If he hadn’t observed her so closely, he would have missed it.

“I’m sure every whore has a similar tale to tell,” she said in a biting tone and without looking at him. “I see no need to bore Your Grace with the details.”

How quick she was to refer to herself as a whore. Yet if ever a demirep held herself above the gutter, it was Soraya.

“Indulge me,” he said softly, noticing the beguiling play of the firelight across the creamy skin revealed above the dress’s low square neckline.

At least his question dispelled the defeat from her eyes. She raised her head and glared at him with a return of her usual blazing defiance. “Is this part of my punishment—reliving my every sin for your delectation?”

“Confession is good for the soul,” he said mildly. “Why not tell me? I’ll let you know if the tale becomes tedious.”

She stood up, her face stiff with disdain. He should have guessed she’d never surrender her secrets just for the asking.

“No.”

Soraya had never said no and Verity seemed to say nothing
else. He caught her hand to stop her leaving. “I mean to find out, Verity,” he vowed.

She snatched away from him. “You bought my body, not my mind, a year ago, Your Grace.”

As imperious as any duchess, she marched out.

K
ylemore stalked into Verity’s room, intent on proving
to both of them
that he was still her heartless lover.

Abandoned to brood in the parlor, he’d decided he was heartily sick of debating the phantom essences of Soraya and Verity. In Whitby, he’d known exactly what he’d wanted of his mistress. She’d learn her place: in his bed. And after learning that, she’d stay there, willing, inventive, endlessly available.

He was desperate to regain that simplicity of purpose.

After the chit’s haughty exit, he wasn’t surprised to discover her perched on the window seat ready for battle. She hadn’t removed the gorgeous dress she’d worn at dinner. Her beautiful face indicated stubborn resistance. She was clearly as willing to lie beneath him as she was to walk to Morocco barefoot.

Perhaps her reprieve from his attentions this morning meant she assumed she could persuade him to leave her alone.

Foolish jade to believe that could ever be true. He was hot and randy, and he thirsted for the relief only she offered him.

“Your Grace,” she said without rising and without a trace of welcome.

“Take your clothes off and get on the damned bed,” he snarled softly from the doorway.

Familiar annoyance submerged the momentary vulnerability he thought he’d caught in her eyes. “I see Your Grace is pressed for time,” she snapped. “Why don’t I just lift my skirts and lean against the wall? That way, you need only devote five minutes to the business.”

“Don’t push me, Verity.” He ripped his neckcloth off and flung it to the floor as he stepped closer to her. “You won’t like the results.”

“I don’t like the results now,” she said coldly.

At this moment, he had no difficulty recognizing her as Soraya. Except once she’d taken him as her lover, refusal had never been part of Soraya’s repertoire.

He gave her the level glare that always gained instant obedience from everyone in the world but this one slender woman. “Liar. You like the results well enough. What I can’t understand is why you go through this elaborate minuet before we both get what we want.”

“I don’t want you,” she said steadily. “You’ve always confused what I do out of necessity with what I’d do if free to follow my own inclination.”

He tugged his shirt over his head and sent it sailing after the neckcloth. “I know you better than that. You’re a sensualist at heart, my dear. It’s what made you a great courtesan. You come alive to my touch. You always have.”

She looked frostier by the minute. He sat down on the bed and extended one leg in her direction.

“Help me with my boots.”

She stood, and her eyes sparked with fury. “Take them off yourself.”

With a shrug, he tugged at his footwear. “If I must.”

He looked across to where she waited, proud and stiff as a statue. Truly, she outdid any great lady he knew when it came to bearing.

Where had she learned her grand manner? One day she’d tell him, he promised himself.

“You’re wasting your time, you know,” he pointed out, tucking his curiosity away for later consideration. “Nothing you say will make me storm out in a temper.”

Surprisingly, a disdainful smile curved that lush mouth. “I’ve seen Your Grace in more equable frames of mind.”

“There are other ways to work off ill humor than a fit of the sullens,” he pointed out silkily and was pleased to see dismay expel her brief confidence. He pursued his momentary advantage. “I requested the removal of your clothing.”

“I don’t believe any
request
was involved,” she sniped back.

He slung his boots into the corner, where they landed with a loud thud. Generally, he was an orderly man. It was part of his carefully cultivated control. But he wanted her to recognize that everything in this house was his—including her—and he treated his possessions as he liked.

Barefoot and still wearing his breeches, he swaggered over to where she stood. She retreated a step before she gathered her courage and held her ground.

Futile courage. Much better for her if she’d taken to her heels. But of course, she’d tried that last night and had only delayed her inevitable fate.

As he’d told her, he knew every hideout on this estate. When madness gripped his father, Kylemore’s very life had depended upon his ability to disappear. He’d often used the
hollow in the shrubbery, if only because it was close enough to the house for a quick escape.

She raised her chin and glared at him. “Kylemore, don’t do this.”

He was relieved to note that her words held more demand than entreaty. He preferred her when she acted his insolent mistress. When she was sad, he felt like the meanest worm that ever crawled upon the earth.

God, he was doing it again. She was one woman, not two. Even if she gave him enough trouble for a hundred.

“Pleas are futile and you know it,” he said evenly.

“Aren’t you tired of forcing yourself on me? What satisfaction is there?”

He laughed derisively. “You’re not so naïve. We both know satisfaction’s not the problem. I might even say I find your resistance exciting. Soraya was always so…amenable.”

Something that might have been shame welled up in her gray eyes, but to her credit, she didn’t waver. “So if I spread my legs without argument, you’ll give up this game?”

Was it a game? At this precise moment, it seemed like life and death.

But then, he’d always been a slave to his desire for her. Having her, incredibly, had only doubled the weight of his chains.

“Let’s try it and see, shall we?” He’d take her any way he could, although he didn’t pretend he’d yet gotten anything like the surrender he craved.

“Damn you,” she said in a low, shaking voice, her hands fisting at her sides. She whirled away in a flurry of crimson skirts.

He grabbed her arm, feeling the willowy strength in her, and swung her back to face him. She was no weakling, his woman. But she needed to understand he’d always be stronger.

“Oh, no. I’m not chasing you through the hedgerows tonight, my dear,” he drawled. “We’ll save that particular amusement for some other occasion.”

“I’m not some inanimate object,” she protested.

“Lately when you’ve been under me, I’ve found myself wondering,” he said cruelly.

Her sharp inhalation was his only warning. She lifted her hand and slapped him hard across the face.

The crack of the blow echoed in the suddenly silent room.

Then she released her breath in a sob and began to struggle in earnest. Kylemore, his face stinging, seized her roughly with both hands.

“You’ll be sorry you did that,” he grated out.

“I’m sorry I ever met you!” she cried wildly.

“You’re not alone in that sentiment.”

“Then why don’t you let me go? End this evil before it ruins us both.”

He felt a vulpine smile spread across his face. “You know why.” He buried his fingers in the thick mass of black hair confined in its elaborate knot. “Because of this.”

Ignoring her wriggling, he forced her head back and swooped down to take her mouth with his. For the space of a second, her lips were taut with rejection. Then she answered his fury with a fury of her own and kissed him back, viciously, hungrily.

Passionately.

He raked his hands through her hair until it tumbled in lavish abandon down her back, while all the time his mouth ravished hers, demanding capitulation she couldn’t help but give. That desperate, unhappy kiss hinted at needs of her own swimming beneath her defiant surface. Needs not too far removed from his own.

Gasping, he raised his head, her taste sharp and rich on his tongue. He searched for some sign that her will and her desire
had coalesced at last. But while her mouth was swollen and wet with his kisses, her eyes shone brilliant with rage.

“Concede, Verity,” he begged hoarsely, his pride dust when it came to his overwhelming hunger.

“Never,” she insisted.

Then astoundingly, she reached up to drag him down for another kiss. Their mouths dueled and parted, then met again, this time for what felt like eternity.

This was like no kiss he’d ever shared. This spoke of passion and anger and misery and an endless battle for supremacy.

And pleasure. Pleasure so intoxicating that it made his head spin.

Curling his arm around her slim waist, he bowed her back to press his mouth to her pale throat. Her pulse pounded wildly beneath his lips. The wanton blood beat a relentless rhythm of temptation that beckoned him as opium had beckoned his father to ruin.

He tasted each shuddering breath she took. The sensation was unbearably intimate, as though she lived by his kisses alone. Her hot scent swirled, luring him to further importunities. His nostrils flared as he tested her building arousal in the most primitive way.

Her fingers clutched convulsively at his flesh. Her nails scraped across the crisp hair on his chest, teased a nipple. She rubbed her lithe body in its silk dress against his bare torso as though she wanted to climb into his skin. His excitement leaped another notch to reach an unbearable pitch.

At last, he’d scratched beneath Verity’s surface, perhaps even deep enough to unearth Soraya, although Soraya would never fall victim to such violent need. The woman in his arms quaked at the very edge of control.

If only he could force her over that edge.

With an unsteady laugh, he twisted her around and flung her onto the bed. She gave a strangled cry as she bounced upon the mattress. Before she could roll away, he climbed on top of her and shoved her down onto the covers.

“I hate you,” she hissed.

“So you’ve said. The repetition risks becoming tiresome,” he said in a deliberately bored tone even while the hot blood thundered through his veins.

“Repetition doesn’t make it less true,” she said savagely. Her eyes glittered with fury and unshed tears as she stared up into his face.

God knew what she saw. Certainly, he’d abandoned any remnant of the civilized man he’d once considered himself. He’d treated her roughly before, but this verged on something darker and they both knew it. Straddling her, he clamped his fingers around her dress’s elaborately embroidered collar.

He briefly recalled his pleasure at choosing the lovely gown from the modiste. It had cost a sultan’s ransom, but he hadn’t cared. He’d been too captivated picturing the vivid color against his mistress’s flawless skin.

“I will not bear this.” Her breath emerged in panting gasps, and her mouth glistened damply from their fierce kiss.

“Oh, yes, you will,” he grunted. “You will bear me.”

One massive wrench. The extravagant dress and the shift underneath split to her waist. Her magnificent breasts spilled free.

Her nipples were hard and puckered, tempting as ripe berries. He bent his head and tongued one rosy peak. Her taste immediately flooded his mouth, heightening his rampant excitement. She moaned, and even through his blind arousal, he heard despair in the muffled sound.

He rolled her nipple in his lips and drew hard on it. She was exquisite. Perfect. Perfect for him. He slid his hands
along her flanks and turned his attention to her other breast.

He had to take her. No delays. No hesitation.
Now
. The demon in him strained to meet its equal in the demon he knew she leashed within her.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he muttered with one last drowning trace of consideration.

“You hurt me just by existing!” she cried.

In wordless denial of what she said, he claimed her lips in another urgent exploration.

Through her frenzy of rejection, her hands curved like claws around his bare shoulders. The savage who lurked within him exulted to know he’d bear her mark.

He kissed her again, using his tongue and compelling her participation.

He shoved up the skirts of what was now the expensive rag she wore and stroked between her legs. She was already wet. Soon he felt the rush of her response against his probing fingers.

She groaned into his mouth and at last kissed him back. He ripped at his breeches to free himself and thrust into her full length.

She gasped and lay still. Her life-giving heat surrounded him. The muscles in her sleek inner passage tightened as if she meant to keep him inside her forever.

He’d meant to brand her as his in the most basic way. He’d meant to show her he really was the heartless beast she believed him to be. But as she lifted her hips to accommodate him, the radiant sweetness of the moment defeated him. The old hankering to possess and pleasure seeped through his frenzy and tempered his rapacious lust.

His touch automatically gentled, and instead of ravaging her like a conqueror, he held himself above her, basking in the exquisite moment.

She was everything he’d ever wanted. This, this was what
he lived for. This was worth the eternal damnation he courted with his sins against her. He’d fight through hellfire itself if this ineffable joining was his eventual prize.

He clung to the glorious stasis as long as he could. Then he began to move, each stroke deep and deliberate to emphasize his mastery. She sighed and released her death grip on his shoulders, sliding her arms around his back.

Ridiculous to find that reluctant embrace so affecting. But it did affect him. More than her practiced caresses in London ever had. Her hands began to stroke him in time with his thrusts, tracing his straining spine, going lower to knead the tense muscles of his buttocks. He knew she was so lost to the sensual pull and release between them that she had no idea she was touching him.

The incendiary heat in his loins threatened to explode, but he battled to contain himself. He needed her to cede her ecstasy to him almost more than he needed his own release, even if delaying his own satisfaction damn near killed him.

He pushed the pace. And this time, she matched him. She moaned again, the sound sweet in his ears, and wrapped her legs around his hips, urging him closer. Then he became blind and deaf to everything except the delicious friction of moving in and out of her body.

Soon, he felt her quiver with the onset of her crisis. He tried desperately to harness the instant when she gave in to him, when he at last held sway over her.