Duke Takes All (The Duke's Secret, #3), page 15
A floorboard creaked and she sighed. “I’m here, Nellie. Come and help me dress.”
“No’ Nellie, lass.”
Hamish’s voice hissed through the room like a scythe during the summer reaping. Quiet yet lethal.
Every part of her body tensed with awareness and terror. It was so strange the way the world slowed. And her heart was suddenly leaping up towards her throat.
Oh so slowly, she turned to face him.
Her brother lingered in the shadows near the servants’ stair. In a few short weeks, he’d lost weight. Gaunt, purple streaks stained his eyes. His face was drawn.
“Hello, Hamish,” she said, barely able to find her voice.
“Sister.”
She wrapped her arms about herself, lest she begin to shiver. She did not wish him to think she was afraid, even if she was. “Why are ye here?”
“I thought it would be rather obvious,” Hamish bit out.
Her brother lifted his hand into sight. The barrel of the small pistol shone in the early light.
She stared at it for several moments, sucking in air, desperate to retain her reason. If she panicked, surely she was dead.
“Killing me now will gain ye nothing,” she tried to protest reasonably, even as sharp panic rushed through her.
“Nothing?” he countered. “I canna agree, Diana.”
“My money will go to my husband,” she reminded softly. “No’ to ye.”
A cold smile pulled at his lips. “Och, aye and dinna I ken it. I’m well and truly ruined. But there is something to be gained in this moment.” He narrowed his eyes and said roughly, “Satisfaction.”
“Satisfaction?” she echoed, not daring to truly understand the meaning of his words. She could not face them.
“Ye’ve ruined my life,” he ground out with surprising quietness. “Perhaps, if I take yers, I’ll feel a might better.”
She licked her lips, “Hamish—”
“There’s nothing ye can say that will change my mind,” he gritted, lifting the pistol.
She searched inside herself for anything. Anything which might provide her more time or to help him change his mind.
“Tell me,” she urged. “Why do ye hate me so verra much?”
“Ye took everything from me,” he hissed. “Everything.”
There it was again. A frantic jealousy that clearly rotted his blood.
“Hamish, I’m so verra sorry,” she said earnestly. “It was no’ my intent to hurt ye or take anything from ye.”
He snorted. “Ye and yer perfect ways. Always pleasing Mother and Father. Ye never made mistakes, making mine only all the more evident.”
His pain was raw and vicious. He believed every word he said. “Hamish—”
“Shut yer mouth, Sister,” he cut in, without raising his voice. “Ye canna wheedle me as ye did them. I tried to explain to them. That I loved them. That I was sorry. They said they forgave me, but I saw the way they looked at me. . .”
Hamish grimaced, as though taking a bitter draught. “And the way they looked at ye. They loved ye best. They trusted ye. I was their son. Their heir. But they chose ye. They would have given ye the title, too, if they could have.”
Diana didn’t argue, because she doubted he was wrong in that last claim. Her parents had despaired at Hamish’s ways by the end.
And it seemed for very good reason.
Her heart ached with how he had so deteriorated. How his brain had turned to such tragic and hate-filled thoughts. For though, yes, their parents had been disappointed in his deeds, they had never stopped hoping he would change. They’d never stopped loving him.
“Hamish,” she began, desperate. “Brother, ye dinna have to do this.”
“No, I dinna,” he replied evenly, but the wildness in his eyes belied his calmness. “I wish to.”
To her horror, tears filled Hamish’s eyes.
“How could ye have married him?” he pled. “Ye ruined everything. Everything.”
Yes, it was there in his eyes. Madness. He truly had convinced himself she was the reason for all his misery.
He cocked the pistol.
There was no time now. No chance to convince him. She had but moments. She had to act for she would not be killed like a lamb at the slaughter.
Diana leapt from the bed, darting towards him. Her only chance was to disarm him. It was impossible to escape his presence. But if she confronted him, perhaps he would hesitate.
But just as she did her best to dash from his aim, he swung the pistol and fired.
The lead ball punctured her body and she froze.
She blinked, frowning at the strange, horrific sensation in her chest.
Surely, he had not killed her?
Surely, she wouldn’t die now?
Hamish’s pale gaze widened and instead of triumph, horror filled his gaze.
He ran from the room. His wild exit into the servant’s corridor was the last thing she saw before she swayed and hit the ground.
The room spun and agony burned through her chest.
She closed her eyes, willing herself to be strong. Willing herself to hold on. She would not die alone. She would not die. . . she would not. . .
Chapter 25
Max bounded up the steps to his London townhome, fighting frustration and a growing sense of fury at his fruitless morning.
Hamish was nowhere to be found. Not in his lodgings. Not in any of the places he’d been lurking. So, it had been impossible to toss him on a ship or, at the very least, scare the devil out of him.
Tonight, he’d go out into London full force with Drake and those that spied for him.
He stopped before his door and, much to his shock, it did not immediately open.
Glancing upward, he tried to make sense of it.
What the devil?
He couldn’t remember a single time in all his life in which he’d been required to open his own front door.
He understood there was a first time for everything but, immediately, he knew something was greatly amiss.
It couldn’t just be Abbot. If the butler had taken ill, then a footman would have been at the ready.
Dread, instinctual dread, filled his belly. It was the sort of inexplicable foreknowledge that made him so excellent as a spy.
He shoved the heavy door open only to witness the chaos of his parlor maids running across the foyer.
“What has happened?” he demanded in the calm, strong voice he’d discovered always cut to the center of a situation.
Young Agnes stopped, her skirts swishing. Her face was as white as her starched apron, a drastic contrast to her black hair.
Her eyes filled with tears. “Oh, Your Grace!”
His heart sank and it felt as if the world stopped spinning at her reaction.
Somehow, though his mouth felt wooden, he demanded, “What is happening?”
Agnes’ face crumpled as she wrung her hands. “Y-Your Grace, Her Grace has been shot.”
“Shot?” he echoed, unable to believe it.
But Agnes nodded. Before the girl could say another word, he rushed up the stairs, taking them two at a time.
“Diana!” he yelled as he raced down the hall. “Diana!”
The world was rotating beyond his grasp. Agony and disbelief enveloped him all at once.
She was his to protect. She was his to protect. She was his to protect.
It couldn’t be true.
Her bedroom door was shut and he pushed through only to witness a veritable sea of people.
Nellie sat beside the bed, silently sobbing, her mistress’ limp hand held in her own wrinkled one.
Max stopped as the sight of a doctor working swiftly over his wife crashed upon him.
The old man was moving swiftly. Swabbing away blood as he wrapped a bandage tightly about his wife.
Several other servants bustled with basins of water and linens.
The iron scent of blood filled the room.
He’d seen death before.
So much of it. In revolution. In battle. But there had only ever been two deaths that had shaken him to his core.
The brutal death of Angeline Purcelle.
And the death of Tommy Adams. The drummer boy he’d taken in and cared for as his own.
As he stood there, terror washed over him. It was the one thing he had dreaded. The one thing that had held him back. He could not bear to lose her.
“Doctor?” his voice sounded almost unrecognizable to his own ears as he strode to his wife’s side.
The sight of Diana was nearly his undoing.
She was as white as the sheet beneath her. Blood bathed a pile of linens on the opposite side of the bed and the fresh bandage wrapped about her shoulder was, even now, stained with crimson.
Her wild, fiery hair was fanned out over the pillow and her burnished lashes feathered against her cheeks. Those cheeks were as pale as chalk.
If she felt pain, it was impossible to tell. For she was clearly unconscious.
“Diana?” he asked, his voice desperate.
She made no sign of recognition.
He threw himself down beside the bed, his body almost touching Nellie’s knee.
It was all he could do not to gather Diana into his arms but he knew such a thing could be ruinous.
He caught Nellie’s stricken gaze.
The maid stared at him, unable to give the reassurance he so needed.
“She’s lost a great deal of blood, Yer Grace. But our lass is a strong one,” Nellie bit out the words, as if she were trying to convince herself.
The doctor continued to finish dressing the wound. “I’ve extracted the ball. But, Your Grace, you must prepare yourself. As the duchess’ lady’s maid says, she has lost a great deal of blood.”
Max snapped his gaze to the doctor and stated, “She won’t die.”
The doctor paused. “You must prepare yourself.”
“I bloody well won’t prepare myself,” Max roared. “Now, if you’re done, get out. I’ll find a doctor who isn’t so ready to give up.”
The older man stiffened then bowed.
Max paid no attention to his hasty retreat.
Instead, he stroked Diana’s terrifyingly cool face. “My love? My love? You must not leave us. Nellie and I need you. I need you.”
Max took Diana’s free hand in his.
Her breaths came slowly but she did not stir, as if she were already half-gone from this world.
But he wouldn’t accept that. He could not let her go.
Good God, what had he done?
Last night, he could have told her everything. Let her in. But he hadn’t and now. . . she might die without knowing how much he loved her. How he wanted them to spend all their lives together. How he longed to see her belly grow with their child.
He sucked in a harsh breath. If he could but be given another chance, he would never deny her again. He would never keep her at bay. He would reveal his true self to her happily and rejoice that she could share all his sorrows and triumphs.
For, as she lay there slipping away, he knew one true thing without a doubt. Diana was his true self. She always had been. She always would be.
He leaned over her, his gaze fixed upon her face as if he could will her to wake up.
“Let me tell you a story, my love. A story about me and all my secrets and all the places I have been and all the things I have done. You see, once I was a very foolish, headstrong boy. . .”
Chapter 26
Christmas came to the Duke of Raventon’s house and, yet, no cheer could be found. No decorations had been hung. No carols were sung.
A general air of mourning draped the house.
Days had passed. Diana did not wake up. Max refused to leave her side. He spoke until he was hoarse, until he could do nothing but whisper to her in broken tones.
He told her of the many artists, writers, politicians, and nobles he had smuggled out of France.
He told her of how Angeline Purcelle had taught him how to change personalities at the drop of a hat, how to trick guards and be a leader. She had taught him how to read people, thus gaining their confidence. He explained how Sophie Argyle had known The Dove. After all, who could not be proud of such an aunt?
And finally, Max told her how Angeline had died. . . betrayed and torn to pieces by the mob.
He told her of the battles he had marched in. . . of Tommy Adams who had been no more than two and ten years old when struck down. Of how it had almost broken him. Tears streaked his face in a way they had not done in years.
He even confessed to his role in the East End, of the spies he’d recruited to sort out the most dangerous gangs, and to discover where the roots of revolution might lie in his own country. For he would not see the streets run red in England as he had seen them do in France.
He told her of his plans to change the lives of the poor. How he longed to give them more rights.
And carefully, every few minutes, he raised a spoon to her lips, slipping water into her mouth, willing her to swallow.
He knew, somehow, that his friends were in the house.
They were holding vigils in some salon downstairs.
Nellie, too, had seldom left the room.
When his voice could no longer even whisper, Nellie read from what he assumed were Diana’s favorite childhood books.
The sounds of those tales drew him oddly close to his wife. And when the silence stretched, and it seemed as if her chest might never rise in another breath, he asked her to stay. When her eyes did not open, he begged with all his might.
Finally, Christmas morning, when all the bells rang out across London Town and she did not stir, he gripped her hand, harder than perhaps he should and he stroked back her hair from her face. “Please, my love. Please. You said. . . you said you chose me. Choose us now.” A tear slipped down his cheek. “Please choose us.”
The miracle did not occur.
To his heartbreak, her eyes did not open and she did not speak to him. It was not to be the greatest Christmas miracle.
Instead, she continued to be silent, like a cursed princess in a fairytale condemned to sleep for all eternity.
***
“I-t h-hurts.”
Diana frowned then winced. Her mouth wasn’t working properly and it was terribly dry. Actually, nothing seemed to be working properly.
She could not open her eyes. She strained but her lids felt too heavy. So, she allowed herself a moment. It hit her then. She’d had the most strange dream.
In fact, she could have sworn that Max had sat by her side and told her the story of his life. But surely, that was sheer and utter madness. Max would never do such a thing. Why should he?
She tried to open her eyes again and, this time, slits of light stung her pupils.
The room spun a bit and she blinked, trying to clear her thoughts.
At last, she looked up at the pale ceiling, the chandelier winking in the candlelight.
What time was it? Night, surely.
Slowly, she looked to the side, an effort which shocked her with its enormity.
The sight of Max’s dark head resting on the mattress as he held her hand stunned her. What the devil was he doing sitting beside her bed?
She blinked again. Nellie sat in a chair by the fire.
They both seemed to be asleep. But why on earth would they be in her room like this?
It rushed back on her. She gasped at the memory of it.
Hamish.
She drew in a shuddering breath. She was alive. My God! She had sworn she would not die. And here she was.
She looked down to her chest and, much as she expected, there was a bandage wrapped about most of her upper body.
Max yawned, let out a long breath, then slowly sat up. He wiped his free hand over his eyes.
“Och, mon, ye look dreadful,” she said gently, her heart going out to him. He looked as though he had been crushed by the weight of the world.
He stilled, and then he lifted her hand to his lips. Tears filled his eyes. “You’re awake.”
“I’m no’ asleep,” she agreed, trying to smile. But she found she was too tired. “That’s for certain, my love.”
“Nellie!” he all but roared.
Nellie jumped. “What’s happened? Has she—”
“She’s awake!” Max all but bellowed with joy.
Nellie darted across the room and let out a cry of sheer happiness.
She cleared her dry throat. “Ye both seem as if a miracle has come to pass.”
“It has, my love,” Max said as he pressed a kiss to her forehead. “They tried to tell us you would die. But Nellie and I believed in you.”
“Ye both ken. . .” She drew in a slow breath. “I wouldna do what a doctor told me to. . .”
Max laughed, though the sound was one of relief.
Nellie rushed to the door. “I’m going to go and tell everyone. They’ll be so relieved.”
“Thank ye, Nellie,” Diana said, the work of speaking surprisingly taxing.
“Och, and Happy Christmas!” Nellie all but crowed.
“C-Christmas?” Diana queried.
“Oh, yes. It is Christmas Day and I have never kent a gift such as this.”
She nodded but then tensed, the action immediately paining her. “T-the Aid—”
“My darling, it has all been taken care of. Eglantine and Harriet sent me a note that all of the decorations, presents, and good cheer had been arranged and that they would all be sending you their good wishes and love.”
A relieved sigh escaped her lips. “I wouldna wish them. . . to be disappointed.”
Max kissed her gently. “I love you, Diana. I love your beautiful soul.”
“I love ye, too, Max,” she whispered.
“And Diana,” he said, his voice thick with passion and gratitude. “Thank you.”
She stared up at him, completely lost for what he might be thanking her for. “For what?”
Once again, his eyes filled with emotion and he wrapped his hands about hers. “For choosing us, my love. For choosing us.”
The Highlands
Several Months Later
Chapter 27
To her joy, Max had done as she asked and told her his story again. She’d remembered most of it, much to his shock. She’d asked particular details about Tommy and when her husband spoke of him, tears had filled her eyes.
