Page 7 of Her Tempestuous Duke

He raised his eyebrows. No one had taken him to task since childhood. He’d been Duke of Tremar for three short years before the perilous escapade in France had deprived him of everything. He was a man used to being obeyed.

“I shan’t apologize. Just be grateful for what I have to offer you.”

He turned his back on her and busied himself with the rum—the sooner she stopped questioning and obstructing him, the better. Leaving the poker deep in the embers, he hunted through his simples for something to put the irksome young female to sleep.

“Do you want anything more to eat?” His potion would sit better in her stomach if she ate. He didn’t want to risk poisoning her.

“I won’t touch another bite unless you bring Lord Anthony inside.”

There was no need to turn around. He could just imagine Miss Harte standing there, with her arms folded across her pert breasts, her bare foot tapping on the flagstones.

Bare feet! He ought to do something about that. It would be a shame for her pretty toes to be damaged.

“Very well. I will apologize, if it means you obey me. And I promise I’ll bring your dastardly guardian inside. But only once I have dealt with you.”

He poured rum into a tankard, added the herbs, then inserted the poker with a pleasing hiss until the drink was warm enough.

“Sit by the fire,” he ordered, pointing to the kitchen’s only chair. Getting enough furniture to make the place habitable had been hard, but the sea was generous. The villagers had been, too—partly to win his favor because they were scared of him and partly in payment for the use of his knowledge and penmanship. He never had guests, but he certainly had a few customers.

Miss Harte appeared to enjoy the mulled rum, and she pointed her feet toward the flames.

“Don’t do that—you’ll get chilblains. Wait there—I’ll find you something to put on your feet. Ariel!”

The parrot soared in through the doorway, landed on his perch, and cocked his head.

“Watch the young lady. Sound the alarm if she even looks in the direction of the door.” He knew, of course, that the bird could not be commanded, and if it ever understood his wishes, it had certainly never acceded to them. But Miss Harte did not know that, and hopefully, just the threat would keep her in her place until he returned.

He mounted the spiral stairs to his sleeping chamber. It was rustic, plain, and poor. He was used to it, but Miss Harte would be appalled, as would anyone from his past life. But compared to the French prison in which he’d expected to die, it was a luxury beyond dreams.

The sheets were clean enough—he hadn’t let himself become that uncaring. But it would be best to put her on top and throw a cover over her—she was so delicate, with that pale, almost translucent skin—such rough cloth would chafe. Now then—shoes. What did he have that would suit?

Ah, yes. The sheepskin boots the old shepherd had given him in return for that lumbago medication. They’d always been too small for him, but he hadn’t the heart to refuse them. Pleased with his discovery, he hurried downstairs to offer them to Miss Harte.

Good. She was already nodding drowsily, the firelight gilding the gentle curve of her cheek and sparking bronze highlights from her unbound hair. How Anthony had managed to rear a young lady so refined and beautiful, Parys could not imagine. The fellow must’ve put her into the hands of a superlative governess and lady’s maid.

Perhaps Miss Minerva Harte was Anthony’s penance, his way of giving back to the world what he had stolen from it, in the shape of something too perfect to be true.

His wits were wandering. Kneeling before her, he took one foot in his hands and massaged the blood back into it. She made no objection—just observed him with those magnificent hazel eyes, reflecting back the leaping flames in a way he found utterly mesmerizing.

Shaking himself, he shoved the boots onto her feet, avoiding any further contact with her skin.

“This will do for now. Have you finished your drink? Good. Let’s get you upstairs to rest for a spell while I decide what to do with my brother.”

“I would never have guessed that he was your brother. Are you sure you haven’t made some terrible mistake?”

Bless her innocent heart! There was no mistake. He must forgive her naivety—she’d been coddled and cosseted and knew nothing of the viciousness of life. He, of course, had seen it in all its brutal and bloody reality. He’d seen suffering that no gently bred Englishwoman could imagine.

Nor should they. Their temperaments were too fine to deal with such knowledge. Although he and Miss Harte had been born into the same social sphere, his experiences had cast a chasm between them.

“Are you telling me I don’t know my own brother?” His voice was gruff. “Don’t bother yourself about him—he’s tougher than you. I won’t have your death on my conscience, Child—let’s get you above.”

“Please don’t call me Child, sir.” Her voice was slurred.

The rum and soporific herbs were working their magic. He was ready to catch her when she stood up and swayed, and it seemed the most natural thing in the world to gather her into his arms and carry her up the winding stairs, carefully avoiding any bangs or bumps.

What a fool he was! He was treating her as if she were made of spun glass. She’d already survived a shipwreck and had been brave enough to stand up to him—this little faerie creature was stronger than she looked.

He lowered her gently to the bed, straightened her limbs, and pulled the fine woolen cover over her.