Page 89 of Project Duke

Thankfully, Carl was nearby, his eyes mad with worry. Calliope looked over her shoulder. Three officers were running after them, sabers glinting in the light of lanterns.

“On the box!” called Nathaniel. “Be ready to drive!”

Calliope’s legs burned with effort as they approached the carriage. Carl swiftly opened the door of the carriage and climbed onto the driver’s seat. Nathaniel helped her climb in, and as he followed her, he roared, “Go!”

He closed the door behind him, and hooves pounded against stone as they escaped into the night.

33

She was alive…

And not only that, but she had also made sure he was alive.

Nathaniel’s limbs couldn’t stop shaking as he climbed the stairs to his bedroom two steps at a time, holding Calliope’s hand in his.

Back in the warehouse, he had been terrified the next time he’d touch her hand it would be forever cold. His heart had thrashed against his ribs like a wild creature ensnared. A familiar chill had snaked its way up his spine, each vertebra locking into place, leaving him as rigid as an ice statue. The ghostly pallor of Calliope’s face, framed by the darkness of the warehouse window, had plunged him into an abyss of memories best left untouched—the agonized moment he had watched his mother crumple from the bullet.

That same paralyzing dread had returned, gripping his mind in iron claws. The metallic taste of fear flooded his mouth, and a cold sweat formed on his brow. The muffled echo of his own blood rushed in his ears, drumming a relentless rhythm.

Would Calliope’s laughter, her touch, the very essence of her, be stolen from him in this hellish cavern of darkness? Would he be forced to listen to the fading beat of her heart? With each passing second, visions of her graceful form being pursued, caught, and silenced threatened to shatter his mind.

The thought of his world without her radiant presence threatened to crush the breath from his lungs. The void she and their babe would leave was so much worse and more devastating than his mother’s death could ever be.

He’d forever be a shell of a man.

But that didn’t happen. Her warm hand was alive and right where it belonged—in his.

And she was right where she belonged.

By his side.

God in heaven, if he’d known at the beginning of this all how she’d have transformed his life…how happy she’d make him…

And how miserable with terror for her.

Would he have married her?

She was supposed to be a bluestocking wife who’d bear him the child he needed. He would restore his wealth and reclaim his rightful position, and then they’d lead their lives separately like so many aristocratic couples did.

Instead…

He closed the door to perhaps the only place in the whole house that hadn’t changed—his bedchamber.

Turning to the wife he’d never imagined but now couldn’t live without, he slowly approached her. Her auburn locks were in disarray, her blue eyes shimmered with hope and uncertainty. He noted her petite frame, seemingly fragile yet emanating an undeniable strength. She had taken over his heart and soul so completely, they belonged to him no more.

And whatever happened, they would never belong to him again.

During the carriage ride home, he had frantically looked back at the dark streets, making sure no one followed them. In between those quick glances, he had reloaded Calliope’s muff pistols, ready to shoot if he saw a shadow of danger.

She’d fussed about his lip, about his eye, about the pain in his side, but he’d brushed her off. He didn’t even feel them, his mind feverish with one thought…

Take her to safety.

And now she was safe. Carl was rousing Joshua and the footmen from their beds to keep watch and to report to Nathaniel the moment they saw someone suspicious near the house. Joshua would take the dogs into the house, ready to protect if someone tried to get inside.

Calliope and his sisters were as safe as they could be, given the circumstances.

He wrapped his arms around her and brought her to him, sealing his mouth with hers. His bruised lips protested, but he didn’t care. The pain was nothing compared to the relief of connecting his lips to hers, his skin to hers.