If I Only Had a Duke(42)

 

He cupped her cheeks in his hands and brought her lips to his mouth.

She tasted of the butter and marmalade she'd slathered on the hard, stale bread this morning to make it more palatable. He kissed her hungrily, reveling in the silken smoothness of her plump lower lip, worrying it between his teeth before plunging inside her mouth with his tongue.

She rose on tiptoes and knotted her arms around his neck, demanding more.

He forgot where they were, forgot everything except the crashing wave of need. He ripped the bow of her bonnet ribbons apart and flung the ragged, obstructionist bit of straw and silk away.

She gasped as a cart promptly squashed her millinery beneath its wheels.

"Never mind," he growled. "I'll buy you another. I'll buy you a new gown, too. And silk garters. Blue ones." That was a lot of shopping. He'd never taken a woman shopping before. But who cared? He'd never felt this way about a woman before.

"Garters," she said breathily, flashing him a smile. "I like silk garters."

He claimed her soft lips again, picturing her in blue silk garters, white stockings, and a smile.

He'd pose her on the ducal bed at Balfry House in exactly the same position as the Venus. And then he'd pleasure her so thoroughly the walls of that crumbling ancient house would shake and moan and all the bad memories would flee.

She broke free for a moment. "Dalton," she breathed.

"Mmm." He kissed her soft neck. The stubborn point of her chin. The tip of her slightly upturned nose.

He'd known her such a short time. How had she woven herself so completely into his thoughts . . . and his life? It was difficult to imagine being alone again.

He wanted to believe that he could change with her. Become the man she thought he was.

Noble and good.

A thought struck him then. A memory. His hand clasping a pen and scratching words across a page. He lifted his head.

He'd written the letter to her mother. Her parents could be on their way from London right now, hoping to salvage their daughter's reputation.

The reputation he'd thoroughly ruined. Christ. What had he done? He had to warn her.

"Thea, I-"

"Didn't you say O'Roarke's ship is called the Rambler?" she interrupted, staring beyond his shoulder. "You'd better turn around."

Something in her voice made him glance up sharply and twist to look behind him.

His heart stopped beating.

Right there beside them.

A well-appointed brig with dark wood gleaming in the morning sun and the name Rambler in gold lettering on the side, plain as day.

How had he missed it? How had Con missed it?

Numb with shock, Dalton's mind registered that the ship was preparing to leave. The sails billowed.

"Well?" Thea pushed curls out of her eyes and cast him a challenging look. "What are you waiting for? Let's go find him!"

She gave him a shove on the chest and ran past him.

Stunned, Dalton's blood froze.

Thea. Running toward God knew what danger. He chased after her but she was already running up the gangplank, lifting her skirts to run faster, her hair streaming behind her as she ran.

Everything a blur now.

He vaulted up the gangplank, catching hold of Thea's arm.

A man in a blue officer's coat with shiny brass buttons sped toward them. "Here now, what're you doing? This ship's about to sail. No visitors."

And then Dalton saw the man standing at the prow of the ship with an expensive spyglass held in his hand, sighting the horizon. He was garbed unmistakably as a gentleman among the sailors and officers.

O'Roarke.

Dalton grabbed hold of the officer's sleeve. "Is that the owner of this vessel? Mr. O'Roarke?"

The officer's eyes narrowed. "Who wants to know?"

That was all the answer Dalton needed.

"Keep this woman safe," he said urgently, thrusting Thea gently into the officer's arms.

Struggling to ignore her indignant cries of protest, he sprang across the deck. Force of habit jerked the kerchief over his lips, whipped the ivory-handled knife from the special sheath inside the top edge of his boot.

"O'Roarke," he bellowed. "Turn around."

He didn't turn, but Dalton could tell by the guilty hunch of the man's shoulders, the tensing of his knees, that O'Roarke wanted to spring over the railing and plunge into the ocean to make his escape.

This was the man he'd been hunting.

Sailors climbing down from the riggings now, hurtling toward Dalton. Any second he'd be mobbed by men, unable to move.

But he couldn't knife a man in the back.

"O'Roarke," he bellowed.

The man straightened his knees and turned.   





 

Slash of dark auburn hair under the top hat, and slitted green eyes.

Young. So young. Too young. Mid-twenties at most.

A weight crushing his chest, not enough air to breathe. Knife still gripped in hand.

Thea by his side, somehow, eyes stormy and intense.

The world stopped tilting and slid back into place.

Two huge sailors and the officer nearly upon them. Dalton thrust Thea behind him, keeping his hands on her arms so she wouldn't spring forward as she had with Albertson in the alley.

He braced for the impact.

"Stand down," the man with the green eyes shouted, and the sailors skidded to a halt.

Thea's fingers scrabbled at Dalton's hands where he still held her imprisoned behind his back. He loosened his grip and she shifted to his side.

Dalton's hand flew to the piece of calcified rock hanging against his chest. His fingers closed around the familiar jagged edges.

Ghost footsteps echoed behind him.

Wait for me, Dalton. I want to come, too.

Go back to the house, Alec.

Memory jarring with reality. Stomach-churning leap of hope.

Dalton pulled the kerchief off his mouth, needing to shatter the silence. "But you're dead."

Leaf green eyes hardened to flint. "Not dead, as you can see."

Not dead. Not dead.

Dalton's mind spun.

If not dead . . . then . . . "You're my brother, Alec."





Chapter 23





"What were you going to do?" Alec asked tersely, anger mottling his face with red. "Knife a feeble, elderly man in the back like a damned coward?"

It was Alec. Something in Dalton knew without the shadow of a doubt.

Alec was American?

A jag of hysterical laughter caught in Dalton's chest. It was laugh or weep.

"Father was right," Alec spat. "You're an animal."

"I thought you were . . ." Dalton couldn't finish the sentence. His mind had reached some insurmountable wall.

He wanted to reach out, touch this phantom brother, take his hand. And all he saw in Alec's eyes was disgust.

"Leave us," Alec said, waving the sailors and the officer away.

"Sir, I think I should stay," the officer said. "For protection-"

"No." Alec shook his head. "Go."

The men walked away, leaving them alone in the prow of the ship.

Thea drew closer to Dalton's side until her shoulders collided with his arms. "You're Dalton's brother?" she asked, her brow furrowing.

"Who's this, then? Your doxy?" Alec asked with arched eyebrows, surveying Thea's windswept curls and travel-worn cloak.

Dalton took a menacing step forward. "You'll speak to her with proper respect. She's a lady."

"Doesn't look it." Alec snorted. "Decadent aristocracy, living for pleasure, squandering your wealth on gambling and fancy ladies while your tenants starve. You sicken me."

The loathing in Alec's voice was palpable. He may as well have spat on the deck.

"You're one of the aristocracy, Alec, I hate to tell you," Dalton said.

"Don't call me Alec. My name's Patrick. Patrick O'Roarke. I was raised in the proud city of New York and I'm an American."

"We thought you were dead," Dalton said. "Murdered. Your clothes washed up on the shores of Balfry. The note the killer left . . ."

"He's not a killer," Alec said coldly. "He's my father."

"But he stole you."

"For good reason."

"Didn't you have memories of that day? You followed me outside onto the cliffs. I let go of your hand . . ." The memory was so strong for him.

"I had hazy memories but they faded. They were replaced with my new life. I'll never be like you. Never accept wealth I didn't earn. Riches steeped in the blood of others." His green eyes narrowed to slits. "Oh yes, I know all about our sire, the old duke."

Dalton's breath rattled in his chest.

What lies had O'Roarke fed to Alec? What truths?

Thea placed a hand on his arm. "Why don't we begin again? Where's your father, Mr. O'Roarke? Still in New York?"

"Gone and buried." Pain flickered through Alec's eyes. "Six months ago. On his deathbed he begged me to come back here, to the old country, to settle his remaining affairs. I found a letter. A confession."

Dalton tensed. "He confessed to stealing you."

"He confessed to rescuing me from our criminal of a father, the Duke of Osborne. That's you now, isn't it? The heartless duke. Corrupt as the bilgewater on a ship."

Thea's fingers massaged his forearm. "Dalton," she whispered. "You're still holding your knife."   





 

Here he stood in his scuffed boots and ragged kerchief, knife blade glinting in his hand, and he'd been named as the duke.

A quick darting glance told him there was no one within earshot, but the words had been said. The secret uncovered.

He flipped his knife back inside his boot and scrubbed a fist across his eyes. "How long have you known?" he asked, his voice sounding wooden and hollow.