Page 6 of Her Tempestuous Duke

Parys had never expected to feel the pangs of jealousy. But when Minerva turned away and flung herself into the arms of the devil he’d rescued from the flooded causeway, madness seized him.

To see that sweet, young innocent in the grip of his inhuman brother was too much. He dragged Minerva off, grabbed Anthony by his collar, and shook him.

“What are you doing?” Minerva clung to his arm, but her strength was nothing against his.

“Giving this dog the treatment that he deserves—as should you.”

To think that his deadliest enemy should fall into his power! It was almost as if he had willed it so, for it was what he craved with every waking hour; it was what penetrated his dreams with grim scenes of revenge.

He clenched his jaw—the superstitious Cornish would believe he’d brought the shipwreck about through wizardry and magic spells. They knew he read aloud in Latin and other languages. They knew he had a grimoire and a copy of Culpeper’s Herbal in his possession—both gifts from the sea and surprisingly well-preserved. To a gentleman, such books wouldn’t look out of place on a library shelf, but to the common people, if a hermit living in a ruined castle had them, he must be involved in the Dark Arts.

Let them think that. He didn’t want anyone to know he was constantly experimenting on himself, trying to find a cure for the malaise that sometimes assaulted him, depriving him of both energy and will. The world must believe Parys Pendorran strong in both mind and body—admission of weakness could be his undoing.

“Ouch!” Pain lanced through his foot. Had that little chit just stamped on him? He glared at her.

“Unhand my guardian at once, sir, or I may be obliged to stamp on you again. Trust me—I’m not normally a violent person, but the circumstances are exceptional.”

His stomach twisted as he stared at her determined, elfin face. He forced down his amusement—it was unfitting to laugh at such a moment. Unless it was the cackling laugh of some archvillain from a book by Hugh Walpole.

“Your guardian and I are known to one another. Are we not, Anthony? And I know all his filthy little secrets. The rest of the world will, too, if I let him live long enough to be tried for the most heinous crime of all.”

His younger brother lost all his remaining color. So—Anthony hadn’t recognized him until now. Unsurprising, really—he’d grown increasingly feral during his time in the castle. Not that Anthony would have expected to see him ever again, except in Hell.

Parys resisted a shudder. When Anthony had set him adrift in that tiny boat, he’d already been close to death. If only he’d had the strength to swim to the beach and throttle the man!

“Parys? You’re alive? God be praised!”

Parys rolled his eyes. Such perfidy! “You didn’t think you’d ever meet me again, did you? In fact, you meant to make sure of it when you pushed me back out to sea instead of bringing me in to shore.”

Minerva released her hold on him and stepped back, her bosom heaving.

Devil take it—he needed to get the girl inside and warmed up before she fainted. She’d been through a terrible experience, and he could not, in good conscience, hold it against her that Anthony was her guardian. Anthony could wait—revenge was a dish best served cold, was it not?

He let go of Anthony’s collar and enjoyed watching him collapse to his knees on the springy turf. The coward had no fight left in him and was entirely at Parys’ mercy—the gods had been kind. Finally.

“You will stay here, brother of mine, while I take the girl to the castle and make sure she doesn’t catch her death. I’ll deal with you in my own good time.”

“The young lady is Miss Harte, my ward, and I advise you to treat her chivalrously.” Anthony’s head sank back onto his chest. He looked beyond exhausted.

“Sir!” The woman gripped Parys’ arm. “You can’t just leave him here!”

Yes, he could, and he was damned well going to. “This cur is going nowhere. The causeway is flooded and the currents are too treacherous to swim in. But to make certain that he awaits my pleasure, Caliban will watch over him. Here, Boy! Guard.”

Caliban stalked forward, his legs stiff, his head lowered. He growled menacingly. Anyone unaware of the dog’s foolish, affectionate nature, should be willing to keep extremely still under such circumstances.

“But, sir! Prospero!”

“Not Prospero anymore, Miss Harte. I can now reveal myself as the true Duke of Tremar.” He stared at his brother, but there was no response. Miss Harte looked ready to faint, so he hoisted her up, threw her over his shoulder, and marched back to the castle.

As he had intended, the movement prevented her from speaking. He needed time to think, and the prattling of a young woman who knew nothing of his circumstances was a hindrance. He would fill her up with some of the rum he’d acquired from last winter’s shipwreck. As soon as she was fast asleep and tucked up warm, he could deal with Anthony however he saw fit.

Parys entered one of the few chambers of the castle that still boasted a roof, the kitchen. He kept a fire going throughout the year—the place was cold, even in summer. Setting his burden down, he poked at the embers and threw a handful of driftwood into the hearth.

A faint sound had him spinning around, and he intercepted Miss Harte before she reached the door.

“You’re going nowhere, Miss. You’ll abide by my wishes while you’re under my roof.”

She tilted her head and stared up at him, hazel eyes flaring. “You are no gentleman, sir, whoever you may pretend to be! Have you no humanity? That’s my guardian outside, who’s been tossed about in the storm, just as I have. He needs the same succor that you’ve offered me. Although I have to say that you’ve offered your assistance most grudgingly.”