The Duke's Stolen Bride Read online

  The words wove as a mantra through her mind. She risked moving her head ever so slightly, ignoring the lancing pain in order to search for a weapon, something she could use to defend herself—

  “Oh. You’re awake. Excellent.”

  The heavy thud of footsteps resounded over the wood planks. “I must confess, you’re a lot heavier than you look. It was quite a chore getting you here.” His boots stopped in front of her line of vision. “But worth it having you all to myself.”

  She lifted herself up onto her elbows. Panting from the exertion and pain, she looked up at him. “You can’t do this. I’m married now . . . Warrington will kill you.”

  “What makes you think Warrington will ever know what happened to you?”

  He uttered the words so easily, so pleasantly. He was all the more terrifying for it. A chill shot down her spine.

  She fought for composure. “He will know,” she insisted. “If I go missing, he will know. He will figure out it was you. Everyone will know it was you.”

  He shook his head, his expression mild and oddly serene. “I’ve given this a great deal of thought. I don’t think so. These are dangerous times. Highwaymen abound. You should have never gone out riding alone, Marian.” He tsked and nodded confidently. “That is what people will think. That is what people will say.”

  Despair threatened to swallow her. Logical or not, he’d decided on his course.

  There was no one to help her. No one would come. She was on her own.

  She looked away from him, her gaze searching the empty room, tracking over everything feverishly. The place was vacant. There was nothing here. No furniture. No items of any kind. Nothing she could use—

  Her gaze lighted upon the stack of firewood near the hearth. Except that.

  She took a bracing breath. She had to reach the wood. Somehow. Before he knew what she was about. Before he could stop her. He was bigger, stronger. She needed the element of surprise.

  She winced and made a show of touching her head. “My head hurts . . .”

  “A headache is the least of your concerns.”

  Fabric rustled and she looked up. He worked loose his cravat. Pulling it free, he then removed his jacket. Both jacket and cravat in his hands, he glanced around, clearly looking for a place to put them. Apparently he was too fastidious to toss them on the floor.

  He spotted a set of hooks nailed into the wall near the door and made his way toward them.

  She took her chance then and dragged herself closer to the fire, to the woodpile.

  “What are you doing there? Trying to run away? Ah, that’s adorable. You think you can get away.”

  Sitting up, she turned to face him, her back propped against the woodpile. Her fingers scrambled behind her, trying to wrap around a log.

  The fire popped and crackled beside her, so close she felt its singe on her skin. “Stay away from me.”

  He advanced on her, sneering. “Already talking like a duchess, giving commands like you’re the bloody queen.”

  “I’m warning you . . .” Her fingers fumbled desperately behind her, her nails snagging and splintering against the rough bark.

  He stopped before her and bent down, grabbing hold of her ankles. He yanked, pulling her toward him.

  She slid across the floor with a squeak, but didn’t let go of the log she had seized from behind her back. The entire stack tumbled. Logs went everywhere, several colliding into her.

  Lawrence scowled. “What the—”

  She swung. Using every bit of force she had, she brought the wood crashing against the side of his face.

  He went down with a howl.

  She hopped to her feet, ignoring the pain, fighting against the dizziness. Gripping the same log in both hands now, she lifted it above her head and brought it down on him. Several times she struck. His head, his shoulder, his chest. He brought his hands up over his face and she hit them several times.

  He rolled, groaning. She lifted the log high above her head, ready to swing again, when she glimpsed his bleeding face. He looked a mess.

  Deciding she had done enough damage, she tossed down the log and turned. Yanking open the door, she fled into the night, into the rain.

  A single horse was tethered outside, suffering the downpour. She charged toward it. It backed up as far as it could with a nervous neigh.

  “Whoa, easy there, easy now.” She fumbled with the slick reins, trying to unknot them.

  She cried out in giddy triumph as she freed them. A quick glance behind her revealed Lawrence staggering to the doorway of the cottage, blood streaming down his face.

  Blast it. He was already to his feet.

  She lifted a foot toward the stirrup, readying to mount.

  Lightning split across the sky, striking somewhere close. The thunder to follow blasted over the night and rocked the earth like cannon fire.

  The horse shrieked and reared, its hooves dancing on the air. She lost her grip on the reins.

  Crying out, she dove for them, for the horse.

  But it was too late. The beast was gone, galloping hard into the woods.

  “No!” She sent a panicked glance over her shoulder.

  Lawrence was out of the cottage, charging through the rain. Coming for her.

  Swallowing back a scream, she turned and ran.

  She plunged into the woods, running without direction, her only thought escape.

  It was dark and the rain made it difficult to see where she was going, but she pushed hard, running blindly, weaving between trees, ignoring everything. The pain. The ground sucking at her boots. The incessant rain. The terror.

  Fear egged her on.

  She heard Lawrence crashing through the foliage behind her. She risked a glance and identified the dark shape of him. He was faster than she would have thought possible.

  “Marian!” he roared.

  She choked on a sob and pushed harder. She swung around a tree and dropped low, crawling as fast as she could and burying herself inside some bushes, hoping he would pass right by her.

  Holding still, she waited. She heard him coming, getting closer.

  “Marian!” he shouted her name in a singsong manner. “Come out, come out!”

  She trembled, shaking violently, but it had nothing to do with the cold.

  Moments slid past. Time stretched slowly.

  Suddenly she heard him shout. Farther away. Differently this time. She strained to hear over the rain. He sounded panicked.

  “Help! Help me!”

  She remained where she was, certain it was a trick.

  “Help!”

  She eased out of her hiding place, and moved stealthily through the woods, peering around her in every direction, braced for an ambush.

  “Marian! Thank God! Help me!”

  She stopped hard. His voice was close, but she couldn’t see him anywhere.

  “Marian!”

  She looked down and there he was, chest deep in a bog.

  “Help me. Get me out.”

  She hesitated. “Why would I do that?”

  “I’ll die.”

  “You were going to kill me!” He still would if he had the chance. She had no doubt of that.

  “No. I won’t do that. Get me out. I promise I won’t hurt you. Please. Please! Don’t leave me to die.” His eyes gleamed desperately in a face speckled with mud.

  She shook her head. Even after she had struck him he still came after her. She was stuck out here all alone with him.

  She couldn’t free him. Saving his life would not change his mind. He would not simply return her home unscathed. She couldn’t risk it. She wasn’t that great of a fool.

  “Word of advice. Don’t struggle. It pulls you down faster. I’ll send help.”

  “There’s no time!” he cried.

  Turning, she fled.

  Chapter 26

  It was almost morning, and they still had not found Marian.

  Nate was sick. This must be where the expression heartsick originate
d. He’d never felt this kind of fear.

  It came close to the night he had lost Mary Beth and their child.

  He’d had the same kind of clenching in his gut then, too, when it became clear things were not going well with her and the babe.

  It was the same chronic state of nausea. He hadn’t been that afraid since then. Since he had allowed himself to care.

  He hadn’t cared since then. He hadn’t cared about anyone.

  Bloody hell. He cared about Marian. He more than cared.

  He loved Marian. He had fallen in love with her. Of course he had.

  He never would have married her otherwise. He never would have asked her to be his mistress otherwise. Only like a bloody cliché, it took the threat of losing her for him to realize that.

  He gave himself a swift shake. He would not lose her. She was out there. He would find her.

  He would find her and never let her go again.

  He recalled the last time he had seen her—the crushed look on her face when he explained he would never give her a child. When he told her they could never have a child together. Never be parents. Never be a family. What a colossal ass he was.

  He vowed he would never hurt or disappoint her like that again.

  He just had to find her. Had to make it right. Had to have the chance to love her properly.

  One of his men shouted, pointing up at the sky.

  Nate looked up and spotted a stream of pale gray smoke against the blanket of darker night.

  He dug in his heels and turned in that direction, cutting hard through the woods toward the smoke. It appeared to be originating from his hunting lodge. The very place he thought to make suitable for him and Marian.

  Several of his men followed. For hours they had been combing the countryside, searching for any glimpse of Marian or Lawrence. Once they had verified Lawrence was missing, they concluded he had taken Marian. They had been searching ever since. It had not occurred to anyone to go to his hunting cottage.

  He was so focused on reaching the cottage, he almost did not notice the shape emerging before him until it was too late.

  He pulled back on his reins. His horse reared up with a shriek. The figure cried out as hooves crashed down on the ground.

  He dismounted quickly, and then he could see quite clearly that it was Marian before him. Wet and bedraggled and the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

  He hauled her into his arms. She collapsed against him, breaking into sobs. She spoke quickly, practically incomprehensible. He pulled back to look at her, holding her face in his hands.

  “Are you hurt? What happened? Did he harm you?” He looked her up and down as though he could verify.

  She shook her head. “I’m fine. A blow to the head, but I will recover.”

  “Where is he?” Several of the men had gathered around him by now, including Pearson. “Where is Lawrence?”

  She motioned vaguely behind her. “I left him. He fell in a bog. I don’t even know if he’s alive.”

  He hoped he wasn’t alive. The man had taken her. He meant to hurt her. Despite Nate’s warnings, he’d dared to take Marian. If the man was still alive, Nate would kill him.

  He gestured for two of his men to go and check on the bastard. He’d deal with Lawrence personally if he still lived, but for now he needed to attend to his wife.

  He wrapped an arm around Marian, and turned her toward his mount. “Let’s get you out of this rain and home. We’ll have you in something warm and in bed in no time.”

  Nodding, she clasped his hand tightly in hers, as though she would never let him go. He hoped that would be the case . . . because he never intended to let her go, either.

  Marian woke several times through the night, frightened, crying out, her hands flailing, groping, clawing and struggling, certain she was being sucked down into a bog with Lawrence.

  Then a hand would run soothingly over her hair, and warm arms would pull her close. “Shh, I’m here.”

  And he was. Every time, Nate was there, holding her, whispering words of comfort until she fell back to sleep.

  When she woke in the morning, she actually felt rested. She rotated her neck on the pillow—wincing at the tenderness in her scalp—to find Nate sleeping beside her.

  She watched him for a moment, so calm and serene in sleep. He was always achingly handsome, but in sleep he looked years younger. Vulnerable in a way he never was when awake. She lightly traced a finger over his brow.

  Instantly, his dark eyes shot open.

  “Sorry,” she whispered. “I did not intend to wake you.”

  “How are you? Do you need anything?”

  “My head is a little tender, but I’m fine. I’ll live.”

  Something almost pained crossed his face at that utterance. “I’m so sorry.”

  “For what?”

  “You’re my wife. I should have protected you—”

  “From a man like Lawrence? A madman? No. You could not have prevented it.” She gave her head a small shake. “What happened to him?”

  “Lawrence?”

  She nodded.

  “Dead.”

  “Oh. Did you . . .”

  “I would have. But no. He drowned in the bog.”

  She expelled a breath, glad for that. Glad Lawrence was gone forever. Threat no more.

  She was also glad it had not been from Nate’s hand. She wouldn’t have wished that awful memory on Nate. She didn’t want him to have killed a man. Not for her. It shouldn’t be something he had to carry for the rest of his days.

  They stared at each other in silence for a long spell, both lying on their sides, only an inch between them. Even with an aching head, she was acutely aware of him—aware of the closeness of their bodies, the mingling of their breaths. “You came for me,” she whispered.

  “I will always come for you, Marian.” He kissed her then, his tongue sliding inside her mouth, tasting her hungrily, as though she had been lost to him and he could not get enough of her taste.

  She touched his face, her thumb brushing against his cheek, reveling in the scratchy sensation of his beard.

  Suddenly, he pulled back. “I’m sorry. You’re not well. I should not fall on you like some rutting beast.”

  “Shush.” She pulled him back to her, clawing at him until he was over her—on top of her, his delicious weight pushing her deep into the bed. She parted her thighs for him, and reached between them, freeing him from the breeches he still wore and finding his cock. She gave him several long pumps with her hand. “I need you. I need this. Inside me. Now.”

  She needed this. They both did. As an affirmation of life . . . an affirmation of what they had together.

  He obliged, thrusting into her. They moved quickly against each other, their gazes never straying, never looking anywhere except into each other’s eyes.

  “I’m close,” she gasped.

  His face contorted in near pain, but he drove into her again and again. He reached between them and latched on to her swollen bud, squeezing and rolling it until she shattered.

  She arched and cried out under him, her fingers digging into his arms.

  He followed, pushing deep, burying his manhood inside her.

  His gaze locked on hers as she felt his seed release inside her.

  “Nate,” she gasped.

  His dark eyes held hers, even as he bent down and kissed her, slowly, achingly. Her heart felt close to exploding. She knew hope was a dangerous thing, but she felt it now. Hope emerged, bright and alive inside her, even as she told it to wait . . . to go away.

  He pulled back slightly with a groan, trembling as he finished with his release.

  Dropping to his side, he pulled her with him.

  “Nate,” she said in a rather strident voice. “What did you do?”

  He propped himself on an elbow and looked down at her. “I’m giving everything to the woman I love.”

  She stilled.

  Everything?

  After a moment, she we
t her lips and recovered her voice. “Wh-what?”

  “I love you, Marian. I don’t want to hold any part of myself from you. Whatever happens . . . I won’t withhold my heart from you. If you want it . . . it’s yours. If you want children, I’ll do my best to give them to you. If you want me . . . you have me. I’m yours.”

  She couldn’t speak, too overcome. Her chest constricted.

  She could only stare.

  “Say something, woman.” He laughed brokenly, his dark eyes a little desperate. “I’ve just bared my soul to you. Please, say something. Tell—”

  “I love you, too,” she whispered, eagerly, hurriedly, as though all this might go away in the pop of a bubble. “I love you, and I’ll take everything you have to give. Greedy soul that I am.”

  “No, not greedy.” He stroked her face with his hand. “You’re beautiful and more than I deserve.”

  She stared at him. “No. We both deserve this. We deserve each other.”

  Epilogue

  One week later . . .

  The entire village of Brambledon turned out for Sunday church. It was standing room only. Such high attendance was unprecedented. Even old Mrs. Hurst, who had not stepped inside the church since the death of her husband and son in the war, was there in her too tight, ill-fitting best dress.

  Mrs. Ramsey, never one to attend Sunday services either, was also present with her maid in tow. The self-proclaimed widow smiled to everyone and was even witnessed embracing the new Duchess of Warrington before she settled into her seat beside her maid and suffered the vicar’s warnings of corruption and vice alongside all other attendees.

  The vicar was later to have remarked that a spiritual awakening had overcome Brambledon. The deluded man must have failed to notice that all attention was directed to the Duke of Warrington and his newly acquired family in the front pew and not on him orating so fiercely from the pulpit.

  Whispers abounded. Everyone was in agreement that the Langley sisters all sat pretty as spring flowers in their new, fashionable frocks.

  Behind the duke’s pew the Pembrokes sat, relegated to the second pew.

  Young Mr. Pembroke stared in rapt fascination at the back of Charlotte Langley’s neck, as if the trail of fair curls there was the most captivating sight on earth.