That is, if she ever had the chance to enjoy such pleasures again.
Without urging, her pony ambled up to stand beside Kylemore’s. Verity looked over the edge into a valley like so many she’d already seen. Woods. A clear stream winding into a large, shining loch. No sign of people.
Then she realized this valley wasn’t exactly the same as every other. This valley contained a substantial house with a cluster of other buildings around it. A house, moreover, in good repair. A house that was even inhabited, if the smoke coming from the chimney was any indication.
She waited for Kylemore to say something else, but he merely guided his pony onto the path down the ridge. Her mount, tied to his saddle, followed.
Their small and rather odd caravan—a nobleman, a whore, two giants, a string of pack ponies and a thoroughbred worth as much as a small estate—made its way downward. The duke’s promise to leave her alone finished when they reached the house, clearly the hunting box he’d mentioned back in Whitby an eon ago.
The grueling journey was over. Now her real punishment began.
Chapter 9
Kylemore reined in on the rough patch of grass before the house. Strangely, everything was exactly how he remembered. After so many years away, his memory should have played tricks, but each detail matched his starkest recollections.
The child hidden inside him longed to run away screaming. The self-contained nobleman he’d since become kept his seat on his inelegant mount and waited for Angus to announce their arrival. He didn’t look at Verity—perhaps because those perceptive gray eyes would see too much if he did.
“Your Grace!” Hamish Macleish opened the door and rushed out. “Your Grace, I didnae ken ye would arrive today.”
Unlike the house, Hamish had changed. When they had last met, Hamish had been a vigorous man in the prime of life. He was still tall and straight, but his hair was white, and twenty harsh winters had weathered his face into crags and lines.
“Your Grace, come away in with ye out of the evening air. Your lady will like a bonny fire and a cup of tea, I’m sure.”
“I’m sure,” Kylemore said, dismounting and turning back toward Verity.
Actually, her expression indicated that his lady might prefer a dash of hemlock in
that tea. He needn’t have worried about her divining his secrets from his demeanor. She looked too petrified to contemplate anything except the fate awaiting her in this house.
He’d wanted to crush Soraya’s pride. Now he found little satisfaction in her terrified silence.
“I’ll at least get you inside before I have my wicked way with you,” he sniped under his breath, hoping irritation might melt the frozen dread from her face. But his hands were gentle as he lifted her from the saddle.
She hardly seemed to hear him, but she trembled under his hold while she found her balance.
He frowned. What was the matter with the chit, for God’s sake? He knew she was afraid—he’d set out to make her so. But it wasn’t as if he planned to do anything to her he hadn’t done before. Or did she imagine he really intended her harm? If he’d wanted to murder her, it would have been considerably more convenient to do it back in Yorkshire.
Anger with Verity—anger part of him recognized wasn’t her fault at all—carried him over the threshold as he hauled her inside. There was indeed a good fire in the parlor, as Hamish had promised, and the ugly, old-fashioned furniture stood exactly where it had when he’d been a boy. Twenty years had passed, and the house’s layout was imprinted on his mind as if his torments here had occurred only yesterday.
He released Verity and moved forward to stand beside a bulky carved oak armchair, where the servants had often restrained his father with thick leather straps. It was the only chair in the house sturdy enough to hold the sixth duke when his madness was upon him. With a shuddering breath, Kylemore banished the horrific image of his father drooling and screaming and tearing at his bonds with long-fingered hands identical to his own.
When Kylemore had left as a bawling seven-year-old, he’d sworn nothing on earth would make him return to this place. He hadn’t counted on his passion for the conniving demirep who hovered hesitantly on the rug before the grate.
Although it was hard to see the avaricious harpy of his accusations in the pale, frightened girl before him. Hard to see the great Soraya.
Her unbecoming black dress was worn, dirty and bedraggled. Her beautiful hair, despite her valiant efforts on the road, badly needed a maid’s attention. She looked tired, scared, defeated.
Hell, there had to be something wrong with him. He still thought her the most beautiful creature he’d ever seen. Nothing he’d done to her had diminished her loveliness.
Hamish followed them in. “Shall I serve tea, Your Grace?”
Kylemore glanced at Verity. She looked ready to collapse. He’d wanted to vanquish her, but the prospect of her prostrate at his feet through sheer exhaustion didn’t seem much of a victory.
“No. Trays in our rooms, Hamish. Perhaps bring madame tea while her bath is prepared.”
Hamish bowed. “As Your Grace wishes.”
As he left, Kylemore tried not to remember that the last time they’d met, Hamish had called him Justin—not Your Grace. Then, he’d been proud to call Hamish his friend. The intervening years had altered that closeness as well.