Page 2 of Her Tempestuous Duke

He was nobody’s master—he was nobody’s friend. Nothing mattered anymore—except revenge.

Parys Pendorran, the deceased Duke of Tremar, turned his face to the wind and gazed at the choppy sea. He often came out just before dusk, too troubled by his inner demons to relax or contemplate sleep. The noise of the storm had made him restless, too.

On tempestuous evenings like this, when the clouds were iron-gray, and the salt spray was flung right to the top of the rocky promontory, Parys’ body ached. The wounds he’d sustained rescuing his tenants from the French prison camp had nearly killed him, and his subsequent illness lingered even now, sapping his strength. The scar that pulled down one corner of his mouth irked him, despite its antiquity. His careless little brother, Anthony, had permanently disfigured him after a playfight with their father’s dueling blades. He didn’t mind—he’d never considered himself handsome. But that was the least harm Anthony had caused him.

Parys lifted his chin and gazed out to sea. It would be so easy—a few steps forward, a tumble down the cliff face, bouncing from rock to rock, then a neck-breaking crunch at the end, resulting in everlasting peace. No one would miss him—he’d been dead for three years as far as the world was concerned.

A cold, wet snout was pressed into his hand.

“Curse you, Caliban. Whenever I think of freedom, you remind me that I still have responsibilities.” He ruffled the dog’s ears. “I shouldn’t be thinking like that, should I? I ought to take my revenge instead. I ought to tear my brother’s heart out and feed it to the crows.”

He ought, indeed—the duchy was his by right and Anthony should be hanged for his crimes. Parys gritted his teeth against the pain of his brother’s betrayal. Did he really want to go back to all that responsibility? Would being Duke of Tremar again fill the gnawing hole in his existence, or did he need something more than that? And what if his physical strength deserted him at a critical moment, as it so often had since his illness? No duke worth the name should be seen as an invalid, especially not one little more than thirty years of age.

Caliban whined and pawed at the ground. It was that same pitiful whine that had forced Parys to battle with the sea for the life of the creature when it was but a shivering puppy. It was a monstrous size now—whoever would have guessed? He smiled and stroked the animal, but Caliban jerked his head up, sniffing the wind.

“What’s up, Boy? Is there something down there?” Instinct made Parys drop to the ground. It was unwise to be seen by any vessels off the coast—visitors were not welcome. But then, what madman would be out in a boat in this kind of swell?

He made his way cautiously to the cliff’s edge, but before he could see over, a strong gust brought something colorful flapping right past his ear. It was swearing loudly.

He sat up, frowning, as his parrot, Ariel—another foolish rescue from the sea—landed on his arm, claws gripping painfully.

“What do you want now? Is a man not entitled to a moment’s peace?” he growled. “I should pluck you, make you into broth and grind your bones for glue.”

“How now, you secret, black, and midnight hag? You scupper-rat, you cream-faced loon.” Ariel’s screeches showed that he was upset.

“Is there no end to your vocabulary of insults, Ariel? You do know I wouldn’t really hurt you after I went to the effort of setting your broken wing. Although I am ofttimes tempted to stick your head in a falcon’s hood so you can’t pick up any more bad language.”

Ariel’s vocabulary had, in truth, helped keep Parys sane since he had pulled himself, exhausted, from the greedy sea to recover his strength on this remote, comfortless promontory. Much of the animal’s language had been learned on shipboard—there was no doubt about that. But sometimes, he came up with a puzzling expression, or something which he must have heard Parys say out loud.

Unfortunately, most of Parys’ utterances were curses at Fate, his life, and the world in general. It was depressing to hear his own words cast back at him, to realize how far he had fallen, to understand how little remained to him of hope.

“Give me one of your seaman’s curses, you foul creature.” Those usually amused him. “I need to be rid of this melancholy.”

Ariel clicked his beak. “You have such a February face, so full of frost, of storm, and cloudiness.”

A shiver like icy water coursed down Parys’ spine. This was too close to the bone. Ariel bobbed anxiously, and Caliban lay flat, his ears pressed against his skull. The feeling of cold dread enveloped Parys again.

Something was amiss with his animals, and he could sense it, too, though he had no idea what was wrong.

Shaking Ariel from his wrist, he pulled himself as close to the cliff’s edge as he dared and peered over. He could just make out that a dark object had washed up on the shoreline, something larger than the usual flotsam and jetsam that pitched up on the narrow shelf of beach below.

In a moment of stillness between buffets of wind, the parrot suddenly launched itself onto the empty air, then dived toward the object.

Parys sat up, the tension leaving his chest. Nothing more than a dead sea animal that Ariel fancied having a peck at. If it was fresh, it was worth investigating, as it could provide food for himself or Caliban. Despite the provisions he got from the local village in exchange for his skills, something additional for the table was always welcome, even if it was seal or whale meat. Dressed duck, salmon in aspic, sugared fruit, and the other piquant dishes of his ducal table were but dim memories.

Life here was plain and simple and in the absence of an ice house, food was most definitely seasonal. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d tasted a syllabub, blancmange, or chilled champagne.

Just as he got to his feet, the wind brought him the sound of Ariel’s screeches. The bird was already picking at the dead beast. But wait. It was tugging at what appeared to be a long lock of human hair. Still firmly attached.

A body? Deuce take it—now trouble would come calling, and he wasn’t prepared for that. He must send the body back whence it had come, back to the watery depths of the sea.

There was a narrow path leading down to the tiny inlet, which smugglers had once used. Since Parys had taken up residence on this headland—regularly cut off by the tide—it had gone out of use. The Cornish were a superstitious bunch, and with his gaunt face, wild look, and reputed dabbling in the Dark Arts, he had managed to dissuade them from using his almost-island home uninvited.

As he slithered over the steep rocks, grazing his hands and catching his feet in wiry roots, he noted that the smugglers must be brave men to risk such a path in the dark to avoid the revenue officers. But they weren’t quite courageous enough to risk an encounter with a spirit that rose above their heads in the dark and swore at them like the ghost of a dead sailor. Ariel had his uses.

As Parys jumped onto the beach, the bird released the lock of hair and flew to perch on his shoulder. He seemed calmer now, having achieved his ends. Caliban let out a single deep bark from the clifftop, his tail wagging furiously.

“I seem to be at the mercy of my beasts, rather than their master. No one could ever call them familiars.” Parys grunted and approached the body.