Duke of Desire

  He was already shaking his head before she was done speaking. “It’s far too dangerous for you to go into town without me. I don’t want the Lords to realize that you’re alive until I’m recovered.”

  “But surely—”

  “No.”

  His harsh tone stilled her for a moment in the act of donning the banyan.

  Her lips tightened. “Can I at least send a letter to the Duke of Kyle informing him of my safety?”

  He frowned at the thought. “No.”

  She narrowed her eyes and finished pulling the banyan around her. The hem puddled on the floor, and the ebony color made her skin glow.

  He really shouldn’t mourn the veiling of her form.

  “He’ll be searching for me,” she said with a clear hint of defiance. “He’ll be worried. I can’t think putting his mind at rest would do you or me any harm.”

  “Don’t you?” he snapped. “And if the Lords of Chaos follow my man to Kyle—if they find out that you’re alive while I’m still recovering from this wound?”

  She knit her eyebrows. “Your men can guard both of us, surely.”

  “You don’t understand how great the danger is.” Raphael clenched his jaw, fighting dizziness, trying to convey the problem to her so she wouldn’t do anything stupid. “The Lords of Chaos have held their revels in this area for decades. Their influence is deep with the local people. Indeed, my father led their society for years. The revel you were at last night was on my own lands.”

  “What?” She stared at him in what looked like horror. “You invited them to hold their debauchery on your property?”

  “No,” he snapped impatiently. “It’s hardly as simple as that.” His shoulder was a throbbing mass of heat, and he tightened his grip on the bedpost. “The Lords do as they please—and it pleases them to continue their revels at the ruined cathedral on my estate. My father enjoyed having them here. When I discovered that the Lords meant to hold the spring rite here, I realized it was in my own interests to let them continue with their plans.”

  “Your interests as a member of the Lords of Chaos, you mean.” She was edging toward the door to the bedroom as if she could flee clad only in his shirt and banyan.

  He wanted to laugh, but he hadn’t truly laughed in years.

  He took a deep breath and strode forward quickly, then grasped her shoulders.

  She started and his head spun.

  For a moment he thought he might vomit.

  “Let me go,” she said. “Let me go, or I’ll—”

  “You’ll what?” He arched an eyebrow. “You’ve already shot me.”

  If he thought to embarrass her, he failed.

  “Yes, I did.” Her blue-gray eyes met his unflinchingly, and he could do naught but admire her spirit.

  He squeezed her shoulders. The soap she’d used in her bath must’ve been perfumed with oranges, for the scent seemed to surround him. “I’m not a member of the Lords of Chaos.”

  “Then why were you there last night? Why were you nude and wearing a mask, ready to participate in their orgy?”

  “Because I mean to infiltrate them,” he gritted. The room was beginning to spin. “Find out who the Dionysus is and destroy him. Destroy them all.”

  She hesitated. “I … I don’t know if I believe you.”

  “I don’t give a damn,” he lied, and fell heavily against her.

  She cried out as his weight hit her, staggering back against the wall, but her arms came up to brace him. His face rested against her neck, his lips on soft, cool skin, and somehow his left hand had landed on her breast.

  Most fortuitous, that.

  No. No, such things weren’t for the likes of him. He needed to resist. To pull away from her.

  But he seemed unable.

  “You’re burning,” she gasped.

  “Then you ought not to touch me,” he said seriously. “You’ll be consumed.”

  “Too late,” she muttered, and pivoted, trying to drag him, he presumed, toward the bed. “You’re awfully heavy—”

  “My soul is made of lead.”

  “—and you’re delirious,” she ended decisively. “I need to get help.”

  He stirred at that. “Don’t leave.”

  Her eyes were so lovely. “I must find Ubertino.”

  He raised his head, staring into those storm-cloud eyes. “Promise me you won’t leave the abbey.” If she left him, all the light would leave as well.

  She looked away and he knew she meant to lie.

  “Promise,” he said sternly.

  Her gaze returned to his. “I promise.”

  “Good.” And then he did the only thing that made sense.

  He kissed her.

  Iris gasped. Dyemore’s mouth burned. Almost his entire weight had sagged against her—and he wasn’t a small man—but it was the kiss that most startled her.

  He …

  She could taste him, the wine he must’ve drunk this morning, the scent of smoke in his hair, drifting about her face, the heat rolling off him in thick waves. He was so overwhelmingly large, so excruciatingly masculine.

  She’d been married. She’d been kissed before—of course she had—but it hadn’t been like this.

  Nothing like this.

  It was as if everything that made her female was being awakened and called forth by everything male in him. Her heart beat faster, her nipples drew tight, her sex grew wet, and she felt … everywhere.

  He staggered and she abruptly came to herself, tearing her lips away from his. Her mouth slid clumsily over the side of his face and across the smooth skin of his scar.

  She jerked back, startled at the contact. It seemed far too intimate somehow.

  “We …” Her voice broke and she had to clear her throat. “You should lie down.”

  He grunted and she truly began to worry. Even at his worst yesterday he’d been articulate—more than coherent.

  Now his head lolled against her shoulder, his face so hot on her neck she thought he might brand her skin. She half dragged, half walked him toward the bed. He stumbled, his arm wrapping around her shoulders, and she nearly went down with him. But she found the strength to lock her knees and remain standing. If they fell now, she’d never get him upright again. Where had Ubertino gone to? How dare he leave his master like this?

  Iris gritted her teeth and hauled Dyemore the last few feet to the bed.

  She pushed him at the bed, panting, and he fell against it. Fortunately, he had enough strength to crawl on top, but she could see his arms shaking.

  Panic was beginning to fill her throat.

  This couldn’t be happening. He’d survived the gunshot. He’d been arguing with her only moments before.

  Dear God, he couldn’t die of infection now.

  She yanked at the covers, pulling them out from under him, and then helped him climb underneath. He was shivering as if cold, but his touch was hot, and she could see sweat beading his forehead.

  Perhaps … perhaps he’d merely overexerted himself by rising too soon.

  But even as she was trying to convince herself, Iris was hurrying to the door. She flung it open and ran to the stairs, calling, “Ubertino! Nicoletta! Ivo!”

  There was a clatter from below as she dashed down the steps. One of the manservants—she’d seen him last night but for the life of her she couldn’t remember if she’d been told his name—met her on the stairs. He lifted a hand as if to stay her, his thick black eyebrows drawn together.

  “No!” She struck aside his hand and swept past him, ignoring his shout.

  The sitting room where they’d wed in that farce of a ceremony was on this floor. She banged open doors until she found it and hurried inside. There! The decanter of wine sat on a side table. She snatched it up and turned to see Ubertino at the door, gaping at her in confusion.

  “Your Grace?”

  “The duke—he’s collapsed,” she said. “Come with me.”

  Nicoletta was in the corridor, frowning suspiciously, al
ong with Valente and Ivo.

  Iris led them all upstairs.

  She burst into the bedroom and a single glance at the bed told her that the duke was no better.

  Nicoletta exclaimed something and brushed past her, hurrying to the sick man. The maidservant bent over him, touching his face.

  The duke muttered in Corsican, but didn’t open his eyes.

  Nicoletta’s mouth thinned. She straightened and barked orders to the men.

  All three ran from the room.

  Iris was already on the other side of the bed and, as if by common agreement, she and Nicoletta both began pulling back the coverlet. The duke’s black banyan was wet with sweat, his chest rising and falling rapidly.

  Between them they helped him sit up, and Iris tipped a little of the wine into his mouth. He drank and then turned aside his head, grimacing. His fingers were scrabbling at the buttons of his banyan.

  Iris glanced up and met Nicoletta’s black eyes. Nicoletta looked worried.

  And that, more than anything else, terrified Iris.

  She gently pushed Dyemore’s hands aside and unbuttoned his banyan, then parted the fine silk, revealing his hot, sweating chest. She pulled his arm from his sleeve, gritting her teeth as he moaned at the movement.

  The manservants returned. They carried jugs of water, cloths, and other items.

  Nicoletta picked up a pair of scissors and cut away the bandage on the duke’s shoulder. The outer layers were dry, but as the maidservant cut through them, it was apparent that the inner layers were sodden with blood and other fluids.

  Iris wrinkled her nose.

  The wound stank.

  The smell reminded her of the times she’d attended the wounded after skirmishes on the Continent. It had been much against James’s wishes, but there had been so many injured and so few to help that she’d felt it was her duty. As a lady she hadn’t been permitted to do much more than bathe the faces of dying boys and men, write letters home for those who were coherent, and generally tidy up, but the sights, the sounds, and especially the smells of that time had been very hard to forget.

  Nicoletta drew off the bandage and revealed a mass of swollen, angry red tissue. The stitches Iris had placed the night before were lost in the puffy mess.

  Iris inhaled. She’d seen men die within days from infected wounds like this.

  Nicoletta picked up a squat earthen pot and pulled the stopper out. She dipped a wooden spoon in the wide mouth and came up with a gob of glistening honey.

  “Not yet.” Iris stayed her hand.

  The maidservant frowned and indicated that she wanted to put the honey on the wound.

  “Yes, I know,” Iris said. “But first …” She glanced around and beckoned Ubertino and Valente to the bed. “Come here.”

  “Your Grace?” Ubertino asked.

  She looked at the manservant, seeing the concern in his bright-blue eyes. “I need you and Valente to hold the duke down while Nicoletta and I tend to him. It may hurt him and he mustn’t injure himself more.”

  “Yes, Your Grace.” Ubertino spoke to Valente and the men took up stances on either side of the bed, their hands holding down the duke’s forearms.

  Ubertino looked up at Iris.

  Iris nodded at him.

  Then she lifted the carafe and poured the wine directly onto the wound.

  The duke shouted and tried to jerk away, but the manservants held him against the pillows.

  His crystal eyes opened, staring accusingly up at Iris as she continued to pour the wine onto his festering skin.

  “Cruel lady,” he rasped, and she faltered.

  The alcohol must burn him. Must hurt him terribly. But she’d seen the doctors do this when tending men with infected wounds.

  Their patients hadn’t always lived.

  Finally the carafe was empty and she stepped back.

  His gaze followed her even as Nicoletta leaned forward with the honey, carefully smoothing it onto the wound. He didn’t move, didn’t so much as wince as the maidservant worked, though that must hurt as well, for she was pressing the sticky stuff into the oozing flesh.

  Instead he kept his eerie eyes locked on Iris.

  And she couldn’t do anything but hold his gaze, standing there as if she were a mouse hypnotized by a dying snake.

  At last his eyelids closed, just as Nicoletta stepped back to stopper the jar of honey and wrap the spoon in a bit of cloth.

  Iris took a breath and wondered at the ache in her chest.

  She could hear the maidservant murmuring behind her, but she couldn’t take her eyes from the face of the sleeping man. Such an awful face. Ravaged and scarred. She’d seen men horribly wounded in warfare. They wore bandages or scarves or hats to hide the worst of their injuries. Not Dyemore. He stood straight and met others’ eyes squarely, unashamed of his scar.

  She touched his hand, lying on top of the bedcovers. His fingers were long and elegant, the nails square and well shaped.

  Nicoletta patted her on the shoulder, urging her to sit in a chair that one of the men had placed beside the bed.

  “Thank you,” Iris murmured.

  Behind her the door shut, leaving her alone with the duke.

  She dropped her head into her hands, only now realizing that she wore only a shirt and a banyan.

  Iris stifled a hysterical laugh. Dear God. What had she gotten herself into? Married to a man who said he was waging war against the Lords of Chaos?

  He moaned, moving restlessly against the sheets.

  She looked up and touched his hand again—too hot under her fingers. All the complaining in the world wouldn’t change her lot. She’d been married for three years to a man she hadn’t loved.

  Who hadn’t loved her.

  She’d survived that.

  And she would survive this.

  In the meantime she knew only one thing: she didn’t want the duke to die.

  His dreams were filled with flame and demons.

  The demons danced on burning coals, their cloven hooves sending sparks into the smoky air. Long forked tongues flickered through the mouth holes in their animal masks, and dolphin tattoos swam over their naked skin. They called him their prince, and when he ran from them, they chased him through the abbey, pleading that they loved him and wished only to crown him their king.

  He fled, his heart seizing with nameless dread, his lungs choked with smoke.

  Everywhere he turned, the abbey corridors were filled with flames, and though he burned he was never consumed.

  Behind him he could hear them crying, calling their terrible love, chasing him into the endless dark.

  Until he came to the heart of the inferno, deep, deep underground. He was there, standing still with grapes in His hair and a smile on His unspeakable face.

  He reached out long, stained fingers. “My sweet boy.”

  Raphael picked up the knife, for he knew what he must do …

  He woke gasping, his throat so dry he felt he was choking.

  The right side of his face burned, and for a moment he was still there, holding that awful knife.

  “Here,” a woman’s voice murmured.

  A cool arm slid under his neck, and for a fraction of a second he thought she was Madre, petite and dark and always so sad. But then she held a cup to his lips and he knew it was his duchess, practical and English, and with eyes that held the light after a storm.

  The water was sweet.

  He drank and then opened his eyes. “Iris.”

  She laid a cool hand against his brow. “Do you want more water?” Her voice was low, nearly a whisper, perhaps because it was night.

  Perhaps because she felt the intimacy of this moment, just the two of them in the darkened room.

  “No.” He sank back into the pillows and fixed his eyes on her, sitting there beside his bed. The awful blackness seemed to loom so close behind her, but she held it back. The single candle made a nimbus around her face, so bright he had to squint.

  “Shall I read
to you?” She picked up a book from the table beside the bed, a small volume, and turned to a marked page.

  He nodded.

  She began reading, but though he could hear her voice, the words tangled themselves around his brain and disintegrated into dust.

  He should try to understand what she read, but the effort seemed too large at the moment.

  So he simply watched her, sitting by him, her pink lips moving, her voice trickling through him like sweet light. The room was quiet. The demons at bay for the moment.

  The feeling was very much like peace.

  And then he fell back into the dreams …

  Chapter Five

  “Well, then, we must steal El’s heart fire back from the shades,” Ann said.

  “Ah, lass, if it were such an easy thing, do you not think I would’ve done it afore now?” cried her father. “’Tis said that no one but the Rock King can venture into the land of the flinty shades.” “Then I’ll go and ask the Rock King,” said Ann.…

  —From The Rock King

  The shout startled Iris awake, her heart beating as if it would shake itself from her chest.

  The duke was arched upon the bed, head back, arms spread, as if he were being tortured.

  She stared at him wide-eyed. He’d been restless before—they’d had to straighten the coverlet numerous times—but it had been nothing like this.

  That scream.

  He’d sounded as if he were a soul in eternal torment.

  His body suddenly slumped to the bed, his limbs relaxing, and he lay still.

  She exhaled shakily.

  The fire had burned down to embers. The bedroom was in shadows, quiet and dark now. She might’ve imagined that terrible sound.

  Except she knew she hadn’t.

  Iris winced as she straightened. She’d fallen asleep sitting in the chair beside the duke’s bed, and her neck ached.

  Her book fell to the floor as she moved, and she glanced quickly to the sleeping man.

  He didn’t stir, and for a moment her heart swooped.

  Then she saw his chest move.

  She picked up the book, straightening a page crumpled by the fall before setting it on a table by the bed. She rose and cautiously bent over Dyemore.

  His black lashes lay against cheeks flushed from fever, his lips parted as he breathed heavily. Beads of sweat lined his brow. He looked the same as he had the evening before when he’d awakened for such a short time.