While the Duke Was Sleeping

  “This is because of him? You’re throwing everything away for him? That degenerate?”

  She flinched and had to resist an angry rebuttal. Lacing her hands together in front of her, she managed an even tone. “You don’t know your brother at all, Your Grace.” Her voice rang with satisfying conviction.

  He stared at her for a moment. For the first time, he looked a little uncertain as he gazed at her. “You really believe that?”

  “Yes. And if you did, you would want him in your life. You’d regret the lost years and try to make up for them.” She moved away, stopping to add, “Someday I hope you have that chance.”

  The chance she wouldn’t have. The chance she had lost.

  Poppy wasn’t certain if she ever really had such a chance. She’d never presented her true self to him, so had there ever been any hope for them?

  Almost as though he could read her mind, he uttered, “Struan Mackenzie is my father’s by-blow. My father abandoned him.” His jaw clenched at this admission. “There is no component of that scenario in which my half brother and I could be friends.”

  Poppy shook her head, feeling immensely sad for the duke right then. “You’re better than that . . . than this.”

  “And now you think you know me?” He angled his head. “They’re right about you. You see the good in everyone. You even managed to fall in love with my brother.” He snorted. “While I was sleeping, no less, and according to everyone, you spent the majority of your time sitting vigil at my bedside. Impressive feat. I have to hand it to him, he works fast.”

  “It wasn’t like that. It isn’t.”

  He shook his head. “It’s fine. I’m not angry.” He gestured for her to continue on. “Go, Poppy. Live your life. I wish you well.”

  Turning, he walked away. She watched him for a moment. There was something lost about him—the duke she thought had everything. He was as sad as she was.

  A little over an hour passed before Bryony entered Poppy’s chamber.

  Poppy turned, halting her packing as her sister strolled into the room. Facing her, she squared her shoulders and braced herself for the verbal barrage she was certain would come. She would deserve no less.

  She had just destroyed her sister’s chance for a privileged future as the sister to a duchess. All the advantages, all the opportunities such an existence could bring, were gone, lost because she couldn’t bring herself to marry a rich, handsome duke.

  Because she was in love with his brother . . . a man who clearly didn’t love her back.

  She waited, ready for her sister to call her selfish. Ready and willing to accept all the names she would hurl upon her head.

  Bryony propped her hands on her hips and glanced at Poppy’s open valise and the clothing strewn about the bed. “Can I help you pack?”

  She could say nothing for some moments. Poppy only watched as her sister stepped forward and began folding her stockings and tucking them inside the valise.

  She choked back a sob and nodded, tears burning in her eyes. “Thank you, Bry. Yes. That would be nice.”

  It was the day before Christmas and Struan had nowhere to go. No family. No friends noteworthy or special enough that they would miss him. He wasn’t even certain what home was to him anymore. England? Scotland?

  Home was Poppy.

  He banished the thought. How wrong was it for that thought to enter his head? He’d clearly gone mad. Poppy belonged to Autenberry. Autenberry had made certain he understood that when they spoke—along with the fact that Struan was not welcome in his home. Ever.

  Poppy wanted the duke. She loved him. She flung herself in front of a carriage for him. Or believed herself to love him at any rate. In the end, the distinction didn’t matter.

  He stopped at the first village and ordered himself a meal of mutton stew.

  Before departing Autenberry Manor, he’d said his farewells to everyone except Poppy. He’d spared himself that. He didn’t care that his brother demanded he leave immediately. He owed proper good-byes to the dowager, Clara and Enid. They’d welcomed him as family.

  “Is this Marcus’s doing?” Enid had demanded. “Oh, he can be such a stubborn mule.”

  “It’s simply time for me to move on,” he’d explained. It wasn’t his intention to sour Enid on her brother. To a degree, he even understood Marcus’s motivation. He’d do the same thing in his position.

  The ladies had refused to let him leave without exacting a promise from him to call on them when they were next in London. He’d made the promise, although he wasn’t certain he could keep it. The very idea of visiting them and seeing Poppy as Lady Autenberry, knowing she was his brother’s wife, was too much to stomach.

  Struan sat at a table by himself near the window, eating his dinner and sipping his whiskey, scowling at any of the serving girls who dared approach. Through the mullioned glass, he watched people scurrying about with their full and busy lives.

  This was all he had. A life of plenty. Wealth and whiskey.

  A life without Poppy.

  Nothing.

  He poured another whiskey and contemplated drinking himself into oblivion. He might as well get a room for the night. He had nowhere to be, after all.

  Chapter 27

  “Poppy? Did you hear a word I’ve said? Come away from the window.”

  She shook her head, not fully processing her sister’s voice. She fixed her stare on the busy street below. Her gaze scanned the crowded village, her mind spinning and heart aching.

  She thought she’d seen Struan out there in the village. Of course, it couldn’t be him. It was just the longing of her heart, addling her vision and confusing her.

  She covered her heart with her hand, pushing against the dull throb. She imagined her heart would do that for quite some time. Still go on. Still continue to beat even though it ached and twisted inside her chest.

  Blinking several times as though to clear her vision, she focused her gaze again, narrowing it in on the hatless man walking in the opposite direction, away from the inn where she and her sister had taken lodgings for the night.

  “It’s him,” she whispered.

  It wasn’t her imagination. She’d know him anywhere. The shape of him. The set of his shoulders. His long stride. The glint of dark blond hair in the paltry winter sunlight. If she closed her eyes she could still feel him, taste him . . .

  “Who?” Bryony came to stand beside her, startling her from her thoughts and making her jump a little where she stood.

  “Struan,” she murmured, facing the mullion-paned window again. She had not expected to see him again. She didn’t know what was crueler. Never seeing him again or seeing him again and not having him.

  “Uh, Poppy? You might be hallucinating.”

  “No. It’s him. There.” She pointed, tapping the glass.

  Her sister fell silent as Poppy’s gaze followed Struan weaving between people. She only caught glimpses of him here and there, but it was undeniably him.

  Suddenly, her sister spoke up. “What are you waiting for, then?”

  Poppy turned to gawk at her. “What do you—”

  “He’s the reason we left. The reason you couldn’t marry the Duke of Autenberry.” At Poppy’s shocked look, she laughed. “Come now, Poppy. I might be young and, at times, not the best sister to you, but I’m not unintelligent. So what are you standing here for? Go after him.”

  “It’s not that simple.”

  She lifted her shoulders in a single shrug. “Isn’t it?”

  “I rejected him, Bryony. He won’t be kindly disposed to me at the moment—”

  “And what is the worst that could happen, Poppy?” She tsked. “He could reject you? You’ve already faced that before and by someone you didn’t love. This man you do love. I daresay he’s worth the risk.”

  She opened her mouth to deny that she loved Struan, but what would be the point? It would only be a lie. She loved him. What she felt for Edmond was a pale shade of what she felt for Struan. There could n
ot even be a comparison. One had been real. The other an illusion.

  Shaking her head, she smiled at her sister. “When did you suddenly start becoming such an adult?”

  “I have eyes,” she retorted. “I can see you both belong together—that you want to be together.” She snorted. “The man did not even respond to my flirtations and not many men can do that, let me assure you.”

  Poppy sighed in exasperation. “Bry,” she said in warning. “I feel as though I need to deposit you in the nearest convent.”

  “Go. Lecture me later. Catch up with him before he’s gone.”

  Poppy nodded slowly as her sister’s advice stole over her and took root. She had nothing to lose. If she didn’t do something, Struan would be out of her life forever. She’d lose him anyway. “Very well.” She glanced at her sister in concern. “You will be well here?” She wagged a finger in warning. “Do not leave this room. I’ll be back shortly—”

  “Go.” Bryony pointed to the door with a huff of breath. “I’ll be fine.”

  Nodding decisively, Poppy snatched up her cloak and hurried out into the hall, down the stairs and outside in the direction she had seen him striding.

  The streets were crowded with people bustling about, intent on their shopping. A long line stretched outside the butcher’s shop. Apparently everyone was attempting to buy provisions for their Christmas day feast. She closed her eyes in a pained blink. She and Bryony would be alone Christmas morning.

  Looking both ways, she stepped out onto the street to go around the winding line of people and dodged a single rider. The gentleman scowled down at her from his mount and tossed out a terse, ungentlemanly reprimand. She supposed, dressed once again in her shabby garments, she looked to be a female of no account or worth.

  Ignoring him, she narrowed her gaze ahead to the red-bricked inn at the end of the lane. It was a far more prosperous-looking establishment than the one she and Bryony had let for the night, well out of their price range. Her limited purse required they stay at the village’s far more meager inn.

  A delicious aroma of roasting meat drifted out the front door and carried across the distance as someone passed through it. Her stomach grumbled, reminding her that she had not yet eaten for the day. Perhaps Struan was staying at this establishment? The smells were certainly an enticement and far better than anything she had smelled in the kitchens where they were taking lodgings.

  She was about to cross the street when she spotted him emerging from the inn. He wore his great coat with the collar hiked up to ward off the worst of the frigid wind.

  She froze, unable to move or speak. Someone jostled her rudely from behind and it was as though the movement served to wake her up.

  Sucking in a deep breath, she waved her arm wildly. “Mr. Mackenzie! Struan! Struan!” she called.

  He heard her.

  He stopped and looked around. She called his name again. His gaze found her. Surprise and something else flashed across his features before his expression settled into an impassive mask. For a moment, she thought he would continue on his way and ignore her altogether. Instead he shook his head and stepped toward her, resignation in his steps. Not the most promising reaction, but at least she would see him again. Hope swelled in her chest. He would give her a chance and hear her out. A chance. She sucked in a stinging breath. A chance was all she could ask.

  The snow-slickened sidewalk grew more crowded as a parade of women hefting their Christmas geese, fractious children in tow, blocked Struan from view.

  She craned her neck, losing sight of him in the melee. Suddenly, a fight broke out among the children. A mother cried out and grabbed for one of the squabbling boys, swinging her enormous goose as she went. The slippery boy dodged her hand and collided into Struan, casting him out into the street and propelling his great body directly in the path of that peevish rider who nearly struck Poppy earlier. Struan backed away hastily to avoid the horse and rider, hitting on an icy patch that sent his feet flying. He landed hard on his back in a great heap. Poppy winced.

  The frazzled mother called out an apology, seizing her child as she did so.

  Struan regained his footing, shaking his head as though to clear it. He beat his hands against his breeches, trying to rid himself of mud and snow.

  That wasn’t all she saw.

  A carriage was bearing down. Fast. It was like déjà vu.

  Everything dragged to a crawl as she watched its speeding approach.

  The driver struggled with the reins, trying to slow the racing carriage. People standing in its path dove out of the way, but Struan wasn’t looking. In the din of the busy village it was just more noise. Struan bent to pick up a goose that had tumbled into the street with him.

  Her heart dropped to her feet as she watched the carriage and horses with their steaming breath and wild eyes closing the distance, mud and snow spitting up at their hooves. Struan called something to one of the mothers, holding up that blasted goose, oblivious to the impending collision.

  No. God, please, no.

  Again, as before, she didn’t think, simply reacted, rushing straight into the street. Except unlike before, her chest actually constricted so much it hurt. And that would be just the beginning of her pain. She knew her life would be shattered if anything happened to this man. There was no doubt of that.

  She knew because she loved him.

  She loved him.

  Cold washed through her. “Struan!”

  His gaze lifted, eyes widening as he spotted her, and she knew she must look like a madwoman. She vaulted the last bit of space separating them, flinging her body against him. A cry escaped her as they flew through the air, clearing the carriage’s path. They slammed together on the ground. They collapsed on the other side of the street the precise moment the carriage roared past. Hard arms wrapped around her, the big body cushioning her.

  Hopefully she had pushed him to safety without harming him too much. If the result wasn’t death or coma, she could count herself successful.

  The horses screamed in protest nearby as the driver pulled hard on the reins, still trying to get them to stop.

  She looked down at Struan beneath her.

  The big, fuming Scot glared up at her, his face drawn tight in lines of pain. “What the hell was that?”

  The air left her in a rush and she couldn’t even make herself move for a moment. She let out a great exhale, assessing herself for injuries. Everything felt fine. Nothing broken.

  “You’re welcome.” She clambered off him.

  “Are you trying to get yourself killed?” he demanded.

  “No, just saving your life,” she returned.

  “At risk to yourself?” He closed his eyes and let loose a curse. “You did it again, Poppy.”

  “That’s right, you oaf. I did.” She propped her hands on her hips. “I did it for you because I didn’t relish you being flattened and killed.”

  She noticed then that there was a deathly pallor to his face—as though all the blood had been leeched from his body. “Are you hurt?” Dear Heavens. What if he was harmed?

  She quickly looked him over. She didn’t note any obvious injuries. His broad chest rose and fell with labored breaths but he appeared otherwise healthy.

  “You’ll be the death of me yet, but I’m well. You can’t take such risks—”

  “People take risks for those they care about,” she shot back, only realizing she had said that once before. When he’d criticized her for shoving Autenberry out of the way, she had said the same thing. People take risks for those they care about.

  It was the truth then and now. Now more than ever.

  He stilled, a strange look coming over his face. They locked eyes and she knew he was remembering that, too. He hadn’t forgotten her words either.

  “Poppy.” He whispered her name almost in reverence and she shivered. Clearing her throat, she glanced around and noticed they were the subjects of many fascinated stares. “What did you say?”

  His questio
n drew her gaze back to him. “I said: People take risks for those they care about.”

  Silence met her reply. Although there was all manner of people and sounds around them it was as though they were the last two people on earth. A muscle feathered in his cheek, ticcing madly.

  His lips quirked and he finally found his voice. “So you care about me?”

  She felt her heart pound savage and wild in her chest, desperate to break free.

  This was it, then. The moment of truth. Her truth. She moistened her lips but before she could form the inevitable answer, he continued. “Poppy, what are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be with Autenberry?” There was some scorn in his voice as he asked this, as though he had thought to grab the question and arm himself with it at the last moment.

  “You left . . .” she began.

  “You didn’t think the duke would want me to stay, did you? You know I would have to go once he woke.” His lips twisted. “Even if he hadn’t demanded it of me, it was for the best. All things considered.”

  She nodded. All things considered. Meaning her lie.

  He still thought she was Autenberry’s fiancée. He thought she wanted his brother over him.

  She sucked in a deep breath. That was why he had left. He thought that now that Autenberry was awake she belonged with him.

  “I lied to you,” she blurted. Finally, she said it. She said it and she could only hope he would not hate her. That he would understand . . .

  He angled his head, looking at her intently as though he were trying to pull back all her layers and see to the core of her. “What do you mean?”

  “Forgive my boy, sir.” A red-faced woman pushed close to interrupt them. “I’ve my hands full with—”

  “Quite all right,” Struan replied, not even glancing at the woman as he seized Poppy’s hand and pulled her after him, charging through the gathered crowd and cutting a direct line for the inn—his inn. He marched them through the main door and up one flight of stairs. A small group was singing carols in the taproom and their discordant rendition of “Old King Wenceslas” followed them.