Page 10 of Her Tempestuous Duke

The dog scrambled to its feet, long legs flailing as its claws scrabbled on the unforgiving stone. Before he knew it, the animal was up on its hind legs, both paws on Parys’ shoulders, licking his face.

“Get down, foul fiend. This won’t make me forgive you.”

“Foul fiend! You stuffed cloak! You bag of guts!”

Parys pushed the dog away and bit his lip. Ariel had a unique way of defusing a situation with his vocabulary of nautical swear words.

It took a moment to compose himself. “You must have some mysterious power, Miss Harte, to have tamed this ferocious beast.”

She gazed up at him, sleepy, relaxed—and divinely lovely.

“Not at all. I’ve just been kind to him and done for him what I thought he wanted. Generosity is no bad thing, whether it be given to a person or a creature. Where did your parrot learn to talk like that? He sounds like a real person—but not the kind I would wish to meet. How are the two servants? I hope you gave them something warm to sleep in, if they have not the benefit of a fire.”

It hadn’t occurred to him—he was used to the cold. Although the old dungeons would be far more chill than this room. He shook himself—this was no time for compassion. Their time would come—he’d take all three invaders to the mainland and offer them up to the local constable. Even if it meant besmirching the name of Pendorran.

He frowned. He couldn’t afford to think about that now. Miss Harte needed to get off the hard, cold floor and away from the fire—her cheeks looked feverishly rosy.

“Caliban! Get below and guard that dungeon door.”

The dog looked regretfully at Miss Harte, then slunk off down the spiral stairs.

“I took the liberty of feeding him. You’d left some raw bones in a crock—I assumed they were for him.”

Parys rolled his eyes. The woman had been here but a few hours, and already she was turning his familiars against him and making decisions that should have been his to make. The sooner he was rid of her, the better.

“Foolish wench. If he’s to guard our prisoners, it’s best to keep him hungry.”

“Isn’t that cruel?” She looked shocked.

He jabbed a hand through his hair. “He knows I’d never let him starve. I just don’t want him falling asleep.”

Why was he defending himself? His house, his rules. “It’s late. I’ll take you back up to bed and sleep down here.” Then, in the morning, he’d decide what to do with her and the unwelcome guests in the dungeons. Despite the visceral urge to tear his brother apart with his bare hands, he must seek a more commonly recognized form of justice. And if English justice failed him, he’d take the law into his own hands and deal with Anthony, whatever the consequences. The life he had eked out here was barely living, anyway—would he care at all if he were imprisoned, transported… hanged? Why should he care if the name of Pendorran were brought into disrepute?

“You spoke earlier of black hearts, sir. But what about black thoughts? Your mind is full of them.”

Was it so obvious? He schooled his expression to one of neutrality. He hoped.

“Now is not the time to talk. You should go to bed.” He held out his hand. “I’ll take you. And I promise not to throw you over my shoulder this time.” Even though he’d experienced a delicious ripple of pleasure from doing it.

She pulled herself up, waved his hand away, and perched on the edge of the barrel.

“I refuse to sleep. It’s not right that I should do so when you have my friends in your dungeon. What kind of heartless creature would that make me?”

He sighed and slumped down into his chair, pushing his feet toward the fire. What had he done to deserve this shattering of his peace, this thorn in his side, this goad to his conscience?

“If you mean to stay awake, then I must stay awake with you. I clearly can’t expect my guard dog to do his duty where you’re concerned. I left him to guard you for your own good, you know. The currents hereabouts are treacherous, and the depth of the water over the causeway varies depending on the time of year. It’s more unpredictable now, in winter.” This wasn’t entirely true, but she wouldn’t know any better.

“Tell me how you came to be here, and perhaps I’ll understand and be able to forgive you.”

He stared into the guileless hazel eyes that watched him, and acute discomfort snaked down his spine.

“What need have I of your forgiveness? You don’t even know me.”

“If Lord Anthony is, indeed, your brother, then we are family, you and I.”

Family? He’d given up all hope of that long ago. In fact, he’d given up on everything but the expectation of one day revenging himself on his brother. Only, despite vivid imaginings, he hadn’t decided on what shape that vengeance would take, and now that Anthony was physically here, the thought of sullying his hands directly was less appealing than before. Did he want to clear a path so he could return to his ancestral home? Would Anthony stand in his way if he wished to take up the title?

How incredible that, after all his plotting, his enemy was now at his mercy. The superstitious Cornish would have said that Parys had used supernatural means to capsize Anthony’s boat. But it would be folly to believe the folklore that had been woven about him, that he was a magician, that the island was haunted by some faerie spirit who spoke with the voice of a man but had no shape or form. But if some otherworldly force had, indeed, allowed him to shape the world so that his brother became his victim, what was its purpose? Was it fair or foul? And what part did Miss Harte play in all of this? At no point, not even in his darkest hour, had he imagined that a shining angel in female form would grace him with her presence.