Page 12 of Her Tempestuous Duke

“How brave you were! Who else would have shown such loyalty, such courage? You risked all your comforts, all your privilege, your very life, to help others.”

“That’s not the end of the story.” He bowed his head, bringing it closer to hers, and lowered his voice. “When I reached the bay, my energy was exhausted. I managed to light my lantern and hang it from the stern, then lay back, hoping I’d be found before dawn.”

“I’m so sorry for your suffering.” She touched his jaw, and he suddenly wanted it to be clean-shaven and more pleasant to touch. “Obviously, you recovered,” she added, smiling, “for there are no scars besides this one. What happened then?”

He would never understand the complexities of women. He and she had been fighting a moment ago, but now Miss Harte was full of concern for him. How would she feel when he revealed his brother’s perfidy? Suddenly, it mattered more than anything else that she should believe him and relinquish her attachment to Anthony.

“I woke in the morning to find the boat scraping and rattling beneath me. I looked up, and there was my brother, who I’d thought still in Italy, staring at me in absolute horror, like he’d seen a ghost. When I found the energy to speak, he stared at me in disgust and shook his head. I tried to get out of the boat, but he rocked it from side to side until I toppled over, too weak to resist. I knew what he was doing—he was pushing the boat back out to sea with me in it. He had no intention of saving me. The lure of the duchy had too great a hold on him.”

He sucked in a breath and let it out slowly. This was the first time that anyone—save his dog and his bird—had ever heard the story of the despicable act that had forced him to spend the past three years rebuilding his strength on this comfortless rock.

Miss Harte’s mouth was open in shock. He gazed at it, distracted by the bow-shaped curve of her upper lip, and entranced by the luscious fullness of the lower. She stiffened, then trembled in his grasp.

“I cannot believe it. I cannot believe that Anthony would do anything so heinous. To his own brother! You must have been delirious—there must be some mistake. The current seized you, or he slipped and fell, or there was a sudden sea swell.”

“There is no mistake.” He should have been angry with her. He should have been cut to the quick that she didn’t believe him, that she still held true to Anthony. So—he’d make her think again. He’d soon teach her who was the better brother.

But not now. His fury at Anthony, his frustration with Miss Harte, dissolved like mist on a fine day, leaving him strangely elated. Was it cathartic to have finally told someone his story? Or was it the simple pleasure of this woman’s proximity, the touch of her hands on his arms, and the salt-smelling disarray of her hair? He’d been starved of female company so long—starved of any company worth the name, in truth.

Those lips. Those eyes! Now, who was the magician? She had bewitched him.

“Prospero? Sir? Parys! What are you doing?” Her hands moved to his chest and pushed.

He didn’t know what he was doing. The only thought in his head was that if he didn’t seize the moment, he’d regret it for the rest of his life.

He hadn’t been brought up to ask. He’d learned to take. Gathering Miss Harte against his chest, he lifted her.

And kissed her with all the yearning in his deprived soul.

Chapter Seven

Minerva was not one to pick a fight, or rage, or throw a tantrum. But she knew full well that, if she were to be considered worthy of the title of lady, she must slap Parys’ cheek.

But there was no fighting this man. She sensed his hunger, his pain, and couldn’t summon the willpower to resist him. The touch of his lips on hers was intoxicating, the feel of his muscular chest crushing her breasts—exhilarating. He made every inch of her feel alive, beautiful, desirable.

He broke the kiss long before she’d finished relishing the exquisite sensations he aroused. She was set down, well away from him, still stunned by her reaction. She dared not look him in the eyes lest he be aware of her body’s betraying response.

She couldn’t remember when she’d last been held. She’d certainly never been embraced like that. If nothing else came out of this adventure, of one thing, she was certain. She wanted to be held again.

“My apologies. That was not the behavior of a gentleman.” His tone was harsh.

No. But it was the behavior of a man who’d lived alone, eaten up by bitterness, and deprived of everything he’d once held dear. Parys Pendorran had been betrayed—and starved of loyalty and love.

That he was still capable of passion was clear from his kiss. That he could still love was suggested by the memorial to his mother in the beehive hut.

“You are forgiven. Of that, at any rate.” She tangled her fingers together, desperate to dispel thoughts of wicked passion and endless embraces. If she fell apart the first time a man touched her, she was no better than her alleged mother, a woman who’d been generous with her favors.

If there was any of her purported father’s courage in her, she needed it now.

“I don’t know if I can forgive you for thinking so ill of Lord Anthony, however. Your tale is grim, but your accusations are grimmer still. What could have forced your brother to take such a desperate measure against you?”

“Why must you side with him, despite what I’ve told you?” The resentment in his voice tore at her.

Because Lord Anthony was all she knew—he was familiarity, comfort, security. The man before her was alien and disturbing in so many ways.

“Neither of us has heard his side of the story. There may be some part of the picture missing here. All I ask is that you speak to him. Call off your dog, release your prisoners and discuss the matter like the nobleman you are.”

If he felt any guilt at having kissed and held her in so intimate a manner, then he owed her something. She was unaccustomed to using guile, but three men’s lives rested in Parys Pendorran’s hands. She must use whatever weapons she had at her disposal, or she’d never forgive herself.