Page 8 of Her Tempestuous Duke

“Sleep now. No harm will come to you—I’ll be downstairs. Just call out if you need me.”

As he wandered out into the chilly passageway, he realized he was smiling. “Enough of that, you fool.” He’d soon be disappointing her grievously. So much so that she wouldn’t feel an ounce of gratitude to him for saving her life on a bitter winter’s day. She wouldn’t even lay a flower on his grave…

He paused near the foot of the stairs and ran his fingers over the stonework, smoothed by years of use. Then, he forced himself to go outside and seize his brother once more by the collar to drag him half-running, half-stumbling, down to the castle dungeons. This rough treatment prevented Anthony from protesting, but Parys kept every sense alert—the man could not be trusted to play fair. The scar on his cheek was proof of that.

Having settled him in the only cell relatively clear of detritus, Parys hunted around for some time until he found a suitable length of wood with which to bar the door. Then he stood and glared at Anthony, picturing in his mind the bloody revenge he intended to have. There were several sharp knives in his possession that would make short work of Anthony’s life. But did he really want to be a murderer? Did he want to lower himself to his brother’s level?

There was a naïve young woman upstairs. When he took his revenge on her guardian, she must be well away from here. Curse it! Why could the storm not have delivered just Anthony? Why did it have to saddle him with Miss Harte as well?

His brother seemed to have fallen into an exhausted doze. Parys exited the cell, barred the door and made his way back up the narrow spiral staircase with Caliban at his heels. They were nearing the kitchen when the hound let out a menacing growl. Parys froze, every sense alert.

Somebody coughed, then belched. This was followed by laughter—but not from the same throat.

Who had dared to enter his kitchen uninvited?

Chapter Five

Minerva had almost drifted off when she heard a clamor from below. Men’s voices raised in anger. Lord Anthony!

She scrambled from the bed, swayed, and fell against the wall. Her sharp cry of pain must have reached the ears of the people downstairs, for there was a heavy thud, followed immediately by the pounding of footsteps on the stairs.

Terrified, she looked for something to hide behind, but the room was devoid of furniture. The door! She must be behind it when it opened, but her feet refused to obey her commands, and she was reaching dizzily for the bed when the door was flung wide.

Prospero! A relief. Or was it? The look on his face had her cringing back in alarm.

His frown vanished.

“Why are you up? Did you fall? Are you hurt?” He took her arm and sat her on the bed.

The touch of his fingers was magnetic. She resisted the urge to lean into him, to allow his strength to counteract her weakness. “I heard a noise. What’s happened?”

The scowl returned. “Two scurvy knaves had the gall to steal rum from my stores, then avail themselves of the comfort of my kitchen.”

Two more men at the castle? George and Pascoe—it had to be!

“Oh, sir, don’t you understand? These must be our servants—our footman and the duke’s valet!”

He turned his face away. “Don’t call him that.”

Not call Lord Anthony the duke? Hadn’t Prospero said something earlier about wanting to be called Tremar himself? She didn’t understand—her mind was too clouded. Despite this powerful urge to question him, she knew she couldn’t find the polite, persuasive words she needed. Why was it so hard to move and speak? That rum was far more potent than she expected—a lady should know better than to quaff a gentleman’s drink.

No matter how all-at-sea she felt, it was imperative that she resist the tempting refuge of sleep. Her companion was too tempestuous to have Pascoe and George at his mercy—she’d seen how summarily he’d dealt with Lord Anthony.

“I’d like to go down to them. But I fear my legs won’t carry me.”

“You’d do better to go back to sleep. They don’t need a woman’s ministrations. And it strikes me that you’re too well-bred to look upon male belligerence and intoxication in all its foul manifestations.”

Belligerence? She remembered that thud. But all was quiet now. What had he done?

She edged farther away, hoping he wouldn’t notice. “But they are my people, sir. I must go down to them. As Lord Anthony’s ward, I consider it my duty to ensure the welfare of our servants.”

He swung back to look at her. “Duty? Don’t speak to me of that. I always knew mine, even when it put me in the direst peril. Duty to my tenants, my servants, my country, my family. But not every man is as dutiful as me. Your guardian, for example—”

He drew in a long breath. She sensed the tension in him, the battle with some deep emotion he had no intention of revealing. It must have been hard for him, living like a pauper in this place, cut off from human society, alone with his darkest thoughts.

“Forgive me—I spoke out of turn. But all the same, I would like to see them. If only to find out if they are who I hope they might be. It would make me so much more comfortable to know that no one perished when our boat was destroyed.”

He stood, bringing her with him. “I suppose putting names to the felons might be helpful. But I insist on carrying you down the stairs to be sure you don’t hurt yourself.”