Page 32 of When her Duke Returns
Antony leaned into the wall, almost hitting a candle off its sconce, then reached for her again. He grabbed her by the waist as Mary struggled for purchase against the door.
“Not without you,” he breathed into her ear. As if on command, Mary heard the creaking of floorboards ahead of them, and the valet appeared out of the darkness with a set of towels and a pitcher of water. Beside him stood Fitzgerald, the Carlisle butler.
“My Lord and Lady,” he said and gave Mary a knowing look. “Lord Burkley, if you would come with me. Speedily now, I say. We should get you to your bedchambers, lest we wake the entire western wing.”
Antony stood resolute against the wall and had to be dragged from Mary’s chamber in his stupor. He let his head hang low and stumbled away, each footstep sounding like the toll of hell against the night. It was almost impossible to sleep when the weight of life hung overhead.
Mary tossed and turned for what felt like hours. She had half a mind to jump out of bed, wake Harry from his rest, and urge him to take her back to the beach to secure the Duke’s uncertain fate.
She doubted any irreversible harm had come to the man. After all, the scandal ofmurderwas far greater than that of being jilted, and Antony was no fool. No matter how desperate he appeared, no matter the cuts on his face, Mary could not allow herself to consider the possibility that the Duke had suffered a second death. It seemed most reasonable that they had fought and then parted ways to lick their wounds... But why had the Duke not returned unless he was incapacitated?
Whatever peace she may have found in the stillness of the night was broken as a sharp scream rang out from further within the castle. At first, she thought it had been a trick of the mind—that she was trapped somewhere between consciousness and a dream. She pulled the covers over her head to smother the certain nightmare. But then it sounded again and more violently this time.
A man—or the ghost of a man—was screaming bloody murder. If there was any chance it was the Duke, she had to find out, for she could not chase from her mind the image of Alexander stumbling along the beach, half in life, half in death, like a specter risen from the ocean. And she had already spent more than enough days at the mercy of thatbête noire.
Stepping gingerly from the bed, dressed in nothing but her nightgown and slippers, she made for the hallway with a brass candleholder in hand.
The house was utterly silent, save for the occasional cooing of an owl and the soft wind against the stone walls of the building. The estate wasmassive. The west wing alone had over twenty bedrooms of its kind. Finding the source of the scream, should it decide not to sound again, would be like finding a needle in a haystack.
The red carpet stretched out interminably before her as she listened for more screaming. Suddenly, not a scream but a small meowl instead cut through the darkness as Pudding came to loop around her legs.
“Here, puss-puss,” she sang and let Pudding sniff her hand. “There’s a good boy.” She sunk to a crouch and tickled the patch of white fur beneath his otherwise tabby chin. “Shall we go hunting, Pud’? Will you be a clever little kitten and lead me to our ghost?”
With an eager, chirping meow, Pudding strode toward the eastern wing of the castle. Mary knew it was folly to trust a cat to know its way around such a large estate, let alone tounderstandher, but she had little else to go on.
Past the western bedrooms, they went until they reached the landing to the stairs which was thankfully empty. Another, quieter spectral groan rang out then to the right, and the two of them made to follow. Before long, Pudding came to settle in front of a double-breasted door at the very end of a hallway.
“Have we arrived, Pud’?” Mary asked the cat then shook her head in disbelief.
She pressed her ear to the thick wood of the door then sought to look beneath its crack for any sign of life. A small, warm glow was coming from inside though it was too weak to have been a fire of any considerable strength. While the screams had subsided, Mary swore she could hear the faintest sighs coming from within. Whatever was afoot, someone was clearly up to no good... and she had come too far to turn on her heels now.
Mary sucked in a deep breath then pressed against the door. It hurtled open with a loud thud, and she clambered inside. Almost immediately, she caught sight of the Duke, seemingly alive and awake.
He was sitting upright atop his bed to the back of the room and in front of a dying fire, his chest bare and golden in the light of the flames. The Duke was holding his hands to his face which was notably bare of its usual bandages, and his hair sticky with sweat.
It was the first time, Mary realized, that she had seen his entire face since his return from war. He had been more disfigured than he had let on; that much was for certain. A long scar ran across half his face, and one of his nostrils had all but been sliced away. One side of his mouth had shriveled up against his skin and had taken with it a mole she did so enjoy in his youth. Whatever had happened to him must have been a nightmare to endure... Though Mary was quite surprised to find that the change didn’t deter her in the slightest.
His eyes went wide as he caught sight of her.
“Mary?” he panted and rose to a squat above his chair. “What are you—”
Before he could say anything else, Mary bowled awkwardly toward him and buried herself in his chest. He winced at her gesture, and at first, she thought she had crossed a line… Until she noticed a large, dressed gash along his upper arm. It made her stomach churn.
“You are… You are simply too much!” she whispered desperately, retreating from him once she realized herfaux-pasand the indelicacy of the situation, unable to tear her eyes from his as relief washed over her. “I thought you were dead. Dead and gone, lost to the sea. Or a ghost, or, or…”
“Please, stop talking,” Alexander said and rose from the bed. Thankfully, he had chosen to wear breeches. “There is an infernal ringing in my head.”
“How did thishappen?What did he do to you?”
The man simply stared forward as he brought his hand to hover over his arm. In the silence, she noticed a series of other cuts along his arms, chest, and jaw, as well—though she reallyshouldn’tbe staring. He looked like he’d been in a fight just as Antony had.
“You cannot be here,” was all he said as he drew his hand away and reached for a carafe and glass on the side table. Maryhopedit was water.
She slapped his hand away, and the tumbler fell to the floor. That would get his attention. “Tell me what happened,” she asked again.
“No,” he sighed and bent down to pick up the glass with a groan.
Mary kicked it further away. “Alexander, you will tell me what happened, or I will scream the castle down. At least share with me the extent of your injury.”
