While the Duke Was Sleeping, Page 2

  He clutched his arm, holding it close to his side. A grimace passed over his face.

  She propped her shaking hands on her hips. “I hope it’s broken! You deserve no less.”

  “Bloody menace,” he growled in a deep Scottish brogue that she hadn’t noticed before. His eyes shot hot venom as they raked her up and down. His broad chest heaved. “This is no concern of yours, lass. Step away.”

  Of course he would not speak like a normal person. Instead he sounded like a man that cracked a walnut in his teeth and bathed in an icy river every morning. Primitive and fierce. A veritable caveman.

  “Look out!” Mrs. Barclay’s scream tore Poppy’s attention away from the heathen Scot.

  She followed her employer’s gaze to the street where the duke struggled to regain his footing, shaking his head as though he couldn’t focus. That wasn’t all she saw.

  A carriage was bearing down toward him. Fast.

  Her heart dropped to the soles of her shoes. It was one of those moments she’d heard described in books or by people in times of great trauma.

  Everything dragged to a crawl.

  She saw the carriage. The horses with their steaming breaths and wild eyes. And the duke, helpless to move out of the way, directly in their path.

  No no no no no.

  She didn’t think. Just reacted, rushing straight into the street. The duke had just managed to rise unsteadily to his feet as Poppy barreled her body against him, propelling him safely out of the way.

  She turned wide eyes to the carriage now bearing down on her. Cold washed through her, freezing her in place. Blast!

  Then a body slammed into her. A pained cry escaped her as she flew through the air, clearing the oncoming carriage’s path.

  She slammed down on the other side of the street as the carriage roared past in a clatter of wheels and hooves. Hard arms wrapped around her, her savior’s body cushioning her, saving her from the worst of the impact.

  The horses screamed in protest nearby as their driver pulled hard on the reins, still trying to get them to stop.

  She pulled back to look down at the person who had just saved her life.

  “You!”

  The burly Scot glared up at her, his face drawn tight in lines of pain. “Feel free to climb off me whenever you so wish. You’re heavier than you look.”

  “Ooh!” She clambered off him, noticing that he was still clutching his arm. He was injured. She felt a stab of sympathy until she recalled he was responsible for his injury. None of this would have happened if he had not engaged in a brawl with her duke . . .

  At the reminder of Autenberry, her gaze shot to where he had fallen. Several people now surrounded him. Lifting her skirts, she rushed forward and pushed through the gathering crowd, her eyes wild for a glimpse of him.

  She gasped as she looked down on him still prone on the ground. His eyes were closed and there was a deathly pallor to his face—as though all the blood had been leeched from his body.

  The air left her in a rush and she couldn’t even make herself move for a moment. She stood there, stunned, looming over the duke, everything else disappearing around her.

  Please, please, let him not be dead.

  Chapter 2

  Everything roared back to focus around her. Bodies suddenly pushed all around her to peer down at him. A man crouched beside the duke and checked for the pulse at his neck. “He’s alive,” he pronounced.

  She exhaled deeply, the tension in her shoulders easing. That same man who declared her duke not dead pulled the cap from his head and looked up at her, his voice full of awe. “Gor, miss. You jumped in front of that carriage for him!”

  She nodded distractedly, her throat clogged tight with emotion.

  “Nearly got herself killed in the process,” a deep voice declared.

  She cut a swift glance at the speaker, recognizing that brogue. The crowd stepped aside for the glowering Scot. His moss green eyes hardly looked at her. His gaze rested intently on the duke. “He alive?”

  “He’s not dead.” Her voice didn’t sound like her own. She swallowed in an attempt to reclaim it. “No thanks to you.”

  He looked back at her. “And you’re not dead . . . thanks to me,” he reminded in his gravelly tones.

  The man clutching his cap gawked. “You saved her, sir! Never seen the like, I tell you!” He looked back and forth between the two of them. “You’re both heroes!”

  Poppy shifted on her feet, not liking the idea of this man as heroic. He was the villain in this little drama. She ignored the voice in her head that reminded her that he had pulled her out of the carriage’s path. And that the duke had been the one to strike the first blow. In her eyes, the brawny Scot was the wrongdoer. The Duke of Autenberry must have been provoked into striking him.

  “You saved his life,” Mrs. Barclay exclaimed, her hands patting Poppy’s shoulders proudly.

  Poppy nodded briskly. “That remains to be seen if we don’t get him out of this cold and properly tended.”

  The man waved his cap to a nearby hackney. “I can convey him anywhere you require.”

  “Aye, then. Let’s get him off the street,” the Scot instructed as though he were in charge. The temerity!

  Everyone scurried to action. The hackney driver and another onlooker lifted the unconscious duke between them and carried him toward the waiting carriage. Annoyance prickled through her that the stranger had achieved their instant obedience. It was as though he bore no culpability in this day’s deeds. Was it merely because he was a man? A well-dressed one at that and clearly a gentleman?

  She rose to her feet, delivering him a withering look. Stepping close, she hissed for his ears alone. “You’ve assisted quite enough here, sir.” She let her meaning hang there, clear even if not spoken. Take yourself off now.

  He looked at her—or through her, rather, for that was how it felt. A cold, emotionless stare that cut straight into her and left her chest tight, the air thick in her throat.

  Then, as though she had said nothing of value to him, as though she was of no value, he turned and walked away toward the hack, dismissing her, still looking far too authoritative even with his bruised face, bloodied lip and arm held tightly to his side. For a fleeting moment, she wondered if he regretted saving her life.

  “You should accompany His Grace home, Poppy. Make certain he is delivered to his household and into the caring hands of his staff.” Mrs. Barclay leaned close to whisper with a conspiratorial air, her dark eyes shifting to the Scotsman. Apparently she was not as trusting of the stranger as everyone else. “The duke is one of our best customers. We must be all that is solicitous.”

  Poppy resisted reminding her that saving his life was fairly solicitous by most standards because she wholeheartedly agreed with Mrs. Barclay. The duke should not be left alone until he reached the care of his staff.

  Nodding, she looked back and forth between her employer and the coach into which they were currently loading the duke. Autenberry. Her heart ached for him. He was not out of the woods yet. Please, don’t die.

  “Yes, yes, of course, Mrs. Barclay.” Her nape prickled, her gaze narrowing on the broad back of the Scot as he moved to climb inside the carriage with the duke.

  Oh, no, he was not!

  The two men had been engaged in fisticuffs. How did she know it wasn’t his intention to climb into that carriage and finish off the duke? Perhaps he would smother him with his coat the instant the doors shut? Or simply use one of his giant paws on his throat and squeeze the life from him? He couldn’t be trusted alone with His Grace. That was for certain. She wouldn’t permit it. She could not. There was no way she would leave the duke at the brute’s mercy. Of course she would be accompanying him.

  “Hold there,” she called, lifting her skirts and chin in a simultaneous move she hoped looked haughty and proper. She might not be highborn, but her mother had been gentry and her father had bred her to be dignified and self-respecting. In this moment, those lessons served he
r well. “I’m coming with you.”

  He looked down at her, one eye red and puffy, fast on its way to bruising. Blood seeped from his lip and yet all combined he still managed to look imposing. Not the least bit weak or vulnerable as any other person in his condition would appear. He was attractive, she grudgingly allowed. At least some females would consider him to be. Not Poppy. “That’s not necessary.”

  “Oh, I think it is.” She climbed up into the carriage ahead of him without assistance, determined that he not leave without her and confident that he would if she gave him the slightest opportunity.

  He followed, joining her inside. Since the duke was reclining on the opposite side, the Scotsman sat directly beside her, his muscled thigh aligning with her own. She recoiled from the contact.

  He started to shut the door. She reached across him and put a hand on his arm, stalling him from closing the hack’s door. “In fact, I don’t see how it is necessary for you to join us.”

  “You don’t?” he asked mildly.

  “No. I don’t.”

  “I estimate there is a lot you do not see, miss,” he retorted in that rumbling growl of his.

  She straightened against the squabs and twisted on the seat to better glare at him, not liking the disdain he treated her to and emboldened by Mrs. Barclay’s faith in her. She would protect their patron. “You’re fortunate that I don’t send for the Watch for your hand in this day’s deeds. Now get out.” She pointed imperiously to the door.

  “How soon you forget that I saved your life. Was that not part of this day’s deeds, too?”

  She inclined her head slightly. “I thank you for that, but that does not signify when it comes to the matter of your presence here with the duke.”

  He tried to shut the door again.

  She pushed on his hard forearm, trying not to let the sensation of the ropey sinew beneath his clothing distract her.

  “I’m not going anywhere,” he growled. “I have every right to be here.”

  “Indeed?”

  “Indeed,” he retorted, mockery lacing that word and curling through her like burning parchment. “I am his brother, after all.”

  She snorted and rolled her eyes at that bit of absurdity. “Ha. Very amusing.”

  He stared at her in utter seriousness. Her breath froze in her chest. Dear heavens. He was not jesting.

  She looked from him to the duke and back again, for the first time noting there was quite some similarity between the two men. Her stomach sank. Oh, no. This man was the duke’s brother. She glanced down to where she clutched his arm in a vise. Oh, no . . .

  She released her hold and blinked, falling back against the squabs. “Oh.”

  He slammed the door shut and rapped on the ceiling of the hack. The coach lurched forward. She swallowed the sudden lump that rose in her throat. It stung to consider that perhaps he did belong here. More than she.

  Autenberry had a brother.

  It felt wrong that she hadn’t known that very basic fact about him . . . about the man she claimed to so ardently admire. She closed her eyes in a pained blink and shook her head in self-disgust.

  I didn’t know he had a brother.

  Of course she didn’t know that. She didn’t know anything about him. Oh, she liked to think she knew a great deal about her precious duke, but that was all part of the fantasy in her head.

  “Very well,” she murmured in surrender, accepting his presence as the coach rolled into motion.

  She studied him in the sudden silence, wondering why she had missed the resemblance in the first place. She chalked it up to the chaos surrounding their first encounter.

  One corner of his mouth kicked up as though tempted to smile. “Very well,” he echoed, sounding so blasted pleased with himself that she only felt more foolish.

  She glanced at the sleeping duke and then back to his brother beside her, scooting as far as she could and craning her neck to evaluate him.

  He was . . . dark. It was the first word that leapt to mind. Ironic considering his hair was a deep gold. But it wasn’t his outward appearance that made her decide this. Darkness exuded from within him. He had fought Autenberry with savagery, his greatcoat whipping around his gleaming Hessians as though brawling in the streets was the most natural thing in the world to him. Because it probably was.

  His very size set him apart from other gentlemen of the ton. Even before he opened his mouth to speak in that brogue that felt like the drag of ermine on her skin, she knew he was different.

  His broad shoulders filled out his greatcoat and he seemed to dominate the space inside the coach. Her gaze dropped to his massive hands folded over his knees. Those hands looked capable of crushing rocks. Despite his gentleman façade, he looked as though he belonged working on the docks. There was a roughness to him, an edge that belied his fine garments.

  With a sudden start, she realized he was studying her, as well. “You’re staring,” he remarked.

  “As are you.”

  “I’m simply trying to understand your presence here. What is your involvement with Autenberry?”

  She pulled back. “My involvement?”

  He brought his face closer so that even in the airless and shadowy confines of the hack she could see the brackets lining his mouth. They might be smile lines or dimples, except she doubted he was given often to mirth.

  She opened her mouth but before she could respond, he demanded, “Are you his paramour?”

  “His what?” Heat slapped her face.

  “Paramour. It means lover, a mistress—”

  “I know what it means,” she snapped. She spoke three languages. She knew the definition of the word paramour. Her gaze flew to the duke in mortification, as though he might overhear his brother’s outrageous line of questioning.

  “You seem very invested in his welfare. You did risk your neck for him, after all.”

  “It’s called caring for another human being,” she cried hotly, shaking her head. “People take risks for those they care for.”

  “Risks?” he sneered. “You care enough about him to risk getting yourself killed. Because that’s what would have happened had I not been there.” He stared at her through narrowed eyes.

  She swallowed, considering his accusation. He was correct. She could have died today. She should regret that. She had not only herself to think of. There was her sister. She couldn’t leave Bryony alone in this world.

  Moistening her lips, she tried again. “I care.”

  “Clearly,” he interrupted, his gaze sharp as cut glass.

  “That does not mean that I . . . that he and I . . .”

  “Are shagging?” he finished.

  Heat exploded anew in her face. Was she trapped in a nightmare? “You’re vile.”

  “In my experience, love is a requirement for diving in front of carriages to save another person. Or at least believing oneself in love.” He waved one hand, conveying the amount of skepticism he felt for that particular level of emotion. “Not that I’ve ever been in love, real or otherwise.”

  “Otherwise?” she echoed, marveling that his cynicism rivaled his vileness.

  “Indeed. Infatuation is oft mistaken for love.” He shrugged. “In whatever form, it drives people to act—” he cocked his head, thinking “—idiotic.”

  “Idiotic?” she squeaked. “Love is idiotic?”

  “I didn’t say that. I said love makes people act like idiots. Evidently you love him.”

  She inhaled a bracing breath and smoothed a shaking hand down her starched pinafore. She didn’t know what was more insulting. That he believed her to be the duke’s mistress or an idiot? “You’re a confounding man.”

  “I’ve been called worse.” He adjusted his long legs and one of his thighs pressed against her skirts. She jerked away as though stung.

  “I can well imagine.”

  Indeed, it was as though he were sucking all the air inside the coach into himself, stealing it from her so that her lungs felt drawn and tight. Th
e man unsettled her. His presence, his very words, made her pulse pound uncomfortably fast in her veins.

  It was a wholly uneasy feeling. Dizzying. Faintly nauseating actually. Nothing at all like the easy warmth she experienced when in the Duke of Autenberry’s company. But then not every man evoked easy warmth. Nor should she expect as much. That should be reserved for the extraordinary few.

  At the thought of such a man, her gaze drifted to the duke. Marcus. His lashes rested like dark bruises on his pale cheeks. He was the only thing that mattered right now. Not his insufferable brother.

  Chapter 3

  Struan hoped he wasn’t dead.

  Murder would be bad enough, but killing one’s own brother? Struan had committed many sins . . . done many unpardonable things in his life, but fratricide, as of yet, was not one of them.

  Granted, Struan loathed the bastard on the seat across from him, but he didn’t want his death on his head. Not that he had pushed him directly into the carriage’s path. Nor had he even been the first to strike a blow, but it didn’t matter. He’d engaged most readily once Autenberry struck him.

  His mother would not be smiling down on him for this particular infraction. She had wanted Struan to find happiness. Peace. To avoid conflict. That had been her dying request . . . in so many words.

  I ken I dinna give ye all I should ’ave. I thought yer da was a decent man. I was wrong. Ye deserved more. A better ma and da. A better life. Ye go and claim it now, son. Ye deserve it. Be ’appy.

  The female beside him looked at him like he was some manner of vermin—certainly not anyone deserving of anything good. Clearly, she thought the sun rose and set in his half brother. She wouldn’t be the first to labor under that misapprehension. Just about everyone around Town thought that Autenberry was as fine and pleasing as cherry cordial.

  Since he’d moved to London a year ago, he’d made discreet inquiries, even frequented places where his half brother would be. All so he could glimpse the son their father wanted. It was curiosity, nothing more. He certainly didn’t crave a bond with one of his few living relations.