The Duke (Daughters of Dishonour #2)

Chapter 21

CHAPTER 21

E lsie was in her dream land, a curious place caught between waking and sleeping. But one she’d always loved ever since she was a tiny child: it was a place of safety, romance, and wish fulfilment. Part of her knew she needed to wake up—there was a feeling of disquiet that whispered at the back of her mind, telling, no, begging her to wake up.

But for now, with the promised reminder of Kit’s kiss on her bare skin, Elsie sank deeper into the half memory, half reality of the delicious sensations… His mouth was on her inner thigh tracing light kisses over and over again until she was squirming at the attention. To think that it was the same austere and brusque man she had met, the one who’d rescued from the moorland, was bending over her, resting himself between her legs, kissing and loving her in such a manner that it sent pinpricks of want, need, and affection through her, as well as a tightness behind her eyes, close to that of tears.

In this fantasy place, she could whisper, admit her feelings out loud. “I love you.” He had not wanted that when he’d proposed to her. In typical Kit fashion, he had been all practicalities and the discussion of affection, or emotion had taken second place. Now in this world of Elsie’s, it did not need to. In fact, she could revel in it.

The memories flooded in, and the strength of his remembered grip on her returned. Kit’s fingers were keeping her in place, not allowing Elsie to move from her position at his mercy. She was his victim, a most willing one she thought, as dream Kit lifted his mouth from her thigh and shifted closer, nearer to her curls. His mouth dipped again, his nose pressing in, whispering half snatched words of praise that fired her blood and had her clenching her legs together.

“You know that just makes me want to explore further,” he had told her. She definitely remembered those words because they had made her blush. “To taste you, to feel your need and coat my tongue with it is the best aphoristic one could ever imagine.” Kit—from his physique to the way his mind worked, to his occasionally aloof but mainly domineering manner, and finally to his very words uttered in their deep cadence—had the power to make her grow wet, dizzy with need for him. For one terrifying moment, the idea that he would realise this almost pulled Elsie from her imagined world, but then the dream Kit lowered his head, his mouth delving in her curls, deeper until he found her most willing flesh, and she cried aloud for him.

On he went, relentless despite her demands that he cease because it was too much for her, too intense and all-consuming. She felt sure if he continued the play of his tongue, mouth, and fingers she would be lost to it, gone and never able to regain her sense of self. All of it, all of her would be spent on him—carried away by the sensations and feelings he stirred in her body, mind, and spirit.

When he finally did pause and shift himself away from her, Elsie found that tears had spilled unbidden down her cheeks. Now she wanted the feel of him buried deep inside her, but Kit wasn’t done playing with her. He seemed to merely be luxuriating in the temporary pause before he moved closer and eased a finger deep inside her. It seemed a form of claiming her, on just yet another level. The intrusion caused the most tantalising taste of her release to hover just out of reach, so a desperate Elsie lifted her hips, eager to feel him more deeply inside her. She felt rather than saw Kit’s grin, a most salacious and wicked smile, as he started to move over her body. All the while murmuring to her, about how glorious every inch of her tasted. Before alighting his tongue on her stomach, nibbling on the softness of it with his teeth, before he proceeded to caress and taste her breasts, promising that he had never seen such perfection and how he wished he could spill himself between their valley. Again, Elsie found herself promising to let him, offering him everything, even if it meant losing herself in exchange, so long as he never stopped.

When he finally kissed her mouth, Elsie could taste her desire, sweet and tart on his tongue, playing over lips, and that combined with the hardness of his body, the memory of his fingers penetrating her, sent a cascading wave of sensation through her, hard and fast, so that she had to hold on to him, begging him never to let go.

The sheer sharpness of her intense release jerked her eyes open, and Elsie started around herself. This was most definitely not her dreamworld. Nor was it the enclave Kit and she had made love in. Nor was it her bedchamber with all the familiar objects and creature comforts close at hand. That was where she’d fallen asleep after Kit had carried her back there and where they’d spent the night together. No, this place was nowhere she’d ever seen before.

The delicious sensation of lovemaking, of intimacy fled from her as Elsie realised the reason she couldn’t move was not because of her lover’s soothing hands, but because of the rope that encased her wrists. She was tied down to a bed, a half-thrown blanket twisted between her legs had played the part of Kit, and now it covered her shift and body. A new feeling bubbled up, one of fear at who might do this to her and why. She forced herself to sit up and confront what lay before her…

Her eyes catalogued the list in a vague attempt to comfort herself.

One, and probably most important given what she had just been in the throes of, she was alone. Slowly, her gaze swept the space and saw no one there, nor any object that might be a telltale sight of her captor.

The fear reared up again. There was no sign of Kit, nor any evidence of his presence in any of the objects that surrounded her, and Elsie realised how much reassurance she would have taken if she could have seen his cravat, or even a book that belonged to him. But no, none of that was here. Briefly she rested her face against the wall of the room before forcing her mind back to the necessary distraction of her list.

What could she come up with next?

Two, the smell of salt and harsh fresh air lingered in her nostrils. Not unpleasant but it did tell her she was closer to the sea than the manor house. That was worthy of note. If she was not mistaken through the walls of what she assumed was a cottage, Elsie could hear the incoming sound of the tide.

Three, yes, the room she was in was not familiar in the slightest, but what she could make out showed it to be sparsely decorated. There were only the basics placed in the space. Which implied, Elsie told herself, that this cottage was rarely used. The curtains, roughed edged and grey in colour, were all drawn over three windows, allowing Elsie no clue where she might be located along the shoreline.

Wriggling in the narrow bed she lay in, she spotted that her captor had at least snatched up a dress for her to wear. Although the idea of someone sneaking into her bedchamber sent a shiver down her spine. With a sniff, Elsie hoped this gown was a sign of consideration, although in truth she was not sure it was.

Instinctively, she knew that Kit would never have allowed her to be snatched from her bed, and therefore, she reasoned, she must have been taken as a means to punish him. It was the curse again, although it was far more frightening in the daytime mundanity of bound ropes and unfamiliar locations than it was in the cobwebs and drafts of Tintagel Manor.

Turning, Elsie started on the ropes. First, she used her fingers, scraping away at them, but it made very little difference. Next, she shifted closer to the stone wall, she lifted her mouth to the bundle, biting and twisting at the knot, trying her best to loosen them. Her mouth bit on the thick threads, and the unpleasant taste of salted fish filled her mouth, but her bindings moved not an inch.

“That won’t do much, missy.” The words startled her, causing Elsie to jump and bite her cheek before pivoting round to face the voice. Blood filled her mouth, the tang of metal throbbing through her head as she gazed across the room towards Peterson. The dismissed butler leant against the only door, his lined face heavy with resentment.

It was not a surprise, per se, Elsie told herself reassuringly, after all Peterson had enough motivation to wish revenge on Kit. At least that was something which surely most people, including Kit, would jump to.

The dismissed servant was looking considerably worse for wear from when Elsie had last seen him. His red-rimmed eyes could be attributed to the bottle he clutched in his left hand, and the clothes he wore were sodden. “My father was a sailor. I know how to manage a proper knot.”

Not caring what the villain made of her, Elsie spat out the blood onto the floor. “You know it won’t take long for my absence to be noticed.”

Peterson sank into the nearby chair and took a large sip from his bottle, his face clenching at the taste before nodding. “You’re right.”

“His Grace will see you hang for this.”

“For stealing his mistress?” Peterson made a sort of unbalanced shrugging movement, which to Elsie’s eyes indicated his belief that Elsie was not long for this world. The disdain was clear, but Elsie figured he might have picked a more insulting word, but she did not know if it would be better or worse for her if Peterson knew the truth. Would he be more likely to spare her if Peterson was aware Elsie was in fact the fiancée of the duke? Or if he was seeking a way to punish Kit, then would this knowledge fuel a dastardly course of action by him? With bated breath, Elsie watched the man, trying to calculate her next words…

She settled on keeping her secret, fearing it might be a motivator for further violence. “You could run,” she said. “Untie me and I won’t say it was you. I often go for long walks. I can convince His Grace that that’s what I was doing on this occasion. You can run.”

For a moment, she thought Peterson might be considering it. He had sunk onto the only chair in the room, his legs stretched out before him as he stared insolently at her, slowly drinking from his bottle. “Nah. All those pretty words of yours aren’t of interest to me.”

“Then what is?” Elsie asked, her mind whirling towards the mention he had made of knots and panicking at the idea of the man placing such a rope around her own neck. Her question was lost when Peterson’s face picked up, as if he had heard something outside the cottage.

He moved to the nearest window and twitched the curtain up, giving Elsie a brief view of sand and sunshine before he lowered the material back down. There was a bright gleam to his pale face, and to Elsie’s mind, it did not speak well for her. Anything that brought Peterson pleasure could not be a good sign.

“She’s here.” The utterance was more to himself than to Elsie. Her sprawled form did not draw his notice, for which Elsie was grateful. He set about straightening his clothes, attempting presumably to dispel the alcoholic aura that surrounded him. Abruptly he seemed satisfied and darted away, leaving the room without a backward glance. She could hear the sound of his footfalls, moving through the adjacent room.

Straining her ears, Elsie tried to listen or catch any part of their conversation, but no matter how she pulled against the rope or shifted herself, she couldn’t hear them. They were either speaking too quietly or the walls were too thick. So, she focused on biting once more on the rope, optimism telling her it was working.

Minutes ticked past and must have dragged into what Elsie thought could be well over an hour, so soon she sagged against her post. Coldness crept over her flesh, and she looked for the dress that had been dropped on the ground. Elsie forced her mind away from her captors and onto the rope, which once loosened meant she might be able to escape through one of the windows.

Slowly, painfully so, and agonising for her wrists, Elsie started working again on the rope, pulling and biting, all the time with the aim of freeing herself. It seemed to be working, one of her hands could turn, and then with an internal cry of joy, her left hand slid out. Her skin was pitted with the markings of rope, but it could now join her efforts to untie her from the post.

As she raised her liberated hand, a fresh wave of encouragement alive within her, ready to begin the struggle again, a loud blast sounded through the cottage, and Elsie froze in her place. She knew what that noise was. Knew the sound all too well from farmers and local gentry close to Berwick-upon-Tweed who would go hunting, carrying their guns, all dressed in red, eager to find a fox. This shot had none of that ceremony. Instead, there was a deadly certainty to the pistol shot, a sound which had ceased, but the effect was still being felt inside Elsie. It would have been a close-range shot and, presumably, inside the cottage, just one room over from her. And if it was aimed at someone… then…

There was a shuffling noise, all bubbles of conservation were now ended, and Elsie missed the faint, vague echoes of chatter. Instead, she could hear the ominous sound of a chair being dragged along the floor, and then the sound of something heavy hitting the floor. Sickeningly the thought occurred to Elsie that it could well be a body.

Her eyes darted back to the door handle, whilst all the while, she could feel her fingers starting to throb and there was a pulse of something warm and wet through her hands. When Elsie looked back at the rope, she saw her blood oozing out against the bindings as she tried her quickest to free herself. She thought she was close, but just a minute more…

All the sounds from the next room ceased. The silence stretched unpleasantly as if there was texture to it, and Elsie knew, whoever the person was next door, they were weighing their options.

And then the door handle moved, and Elsie knew she was out of time. She hastily shoved her free hand back into the rope, keen to hide her half liberty.

The woman who stood in the doorway, held the pistol that Elsie must have heard fired. There was a matching streak of blood on her hands as well as a separate one on her face as if she swatted at her cheek. Elsie felt sure these markings were less to do with struggling to free herself and more to do with her lifting and moving a body. For a brief moment Elsie had thought perhaps it was a sign of a rescue but one look at the woman’s face told her there was something more complicated going on.

Wildly Elsie glanced at either side of the woman, looking for Peterson, even if he was…

“He’s dead.” The woman walked into the room, moving out of the dim light of the adjoining room and closer to Elsie. She put the pistol down on the only chair in the room and stared at Elsie, her face marred with an expression that Elsie did not like.

Her tongue darted out, and Elsie tried her best to formulate a question… or just words to fill up the heavy, empty space.

“Mrs. Clarke…” her voice was dry, awkward as she attempted to speak. “You found me…”

The housekeeper grimaced before nodding. “You were never part of the plan.”

“His Grace would reward you—” Even as she said the words, Elsie was already certain they would have little impact on Mrs. Clarke. There was too much calculation in her eyes to fall for such a simple attempt, and when the housekeeper raised her hand, Elsie felt silent, fear gripping her.

“Peterson was a fool.”

“He certainly paid the price,” Elsie said, seeing the lack of sympathy which oozed from Mrs Clarke.

“He must have known he would be the first suspect…”

“Is that why you killed him? To lead them astray?” Elsie asked, her mind and mouth turning away faster than she thought possible.

The housekeeper moved closer, her handsome face soft and refined in contrast to the bloody streak on her cheek. The animosity vibrated out of her until Elsie had to drop her gaze away from such hatred.

“I would not have him alive to turn traitor on me.” Her voice was so cold Elsie shivered. “I wish to God I had never heard of either of you.”

This remark made Elsie look up, her brows knitting together in confusion. Surely, the woman didn’t mean Kit.

“It’s thanks to your bloody sister that my son is dead.” Mrs. Clarke’s harsh words rang close to Elsie as she crouched down on the narrow bed. From her apron, she slipped dozens of letters out across the sheets, and Elsie recognised Margot’s handwriting, as well as her own, across the envelopes. They were all undelivered but had been opened and read, their secrets and news shared only to Mrs. Clarke it seemed.

Elsie looked up into the housekeeper’s face, trying to guess at what the woman meant, but the older woman whispered words that removed any lingering hope she might be reasoned with. “I suppose it’s only fair that I kill you in return.”