Page 9 of Devil at the Gates
“How…did…you…do it?” she murmured drowsily. Lord Frostmore had done this to her, whatever it was, and she clung to her consciousness, wanting to know how.
“The wine, my dear. I never drank it. I thought for sure you’d notice.” His soft laughter stirred her hair as his arms tightened about her waist.
“You are the devil,” Harriet said in an angry whisper as she sagged against him, now barely able to stand.
“The worst is yet to come. Luckily, you will not remember much of this night come dawn,” the duke assured her.
His arm encircling her waist was the only thing keeping her upright. They exited the dining room and entered the entry hall near the stairs. Harriet latched on to a small table by the stairs, digging her fingers into the wood. The duke tugged at her weary body, but when she refused to budge, he pressed her up against the wall, letting her feel his strength as he pressed his lips to her ear.
“Now, my dear, be reasonable. Do you wish me to tend to you here? Or should I see to you in a more private location?” One of his hands drifted down her back and over the curve of her hips, gripping the thin pink muslin gown at her waist. Harriet struggled to understand. Was he going to…?
“No…please!”
The duke kissed her forehead, brushed his knuckles over her cheek, and then released his hold so that he could bend over and wrap an arm about her legs and back, picking her up and carrying her like a child in his arms.
Harriet’s head fell back, her eyes mesmerized by the spinning ceiling and the dancing light of candles that created a flaming crown around the duke’s red hair. Her eyes fell shut and did not open again until her body sank into a soft bed. She forced her eyes open, just in time to see Lord Frostmore coming toward the bed. He seemed to be a dream, like a pagan god forged of lightning and moonlight, a powerful Zeus transforming from a swan to mortal form so that he might take his pleasure from the beautiful human Leda.
Harriet tried to sit up, only to collapse back onto the bed. Then she struggled to turn over and crawl away from him, but he caught her and gently settled her back in the middle of the bed.
“Stay,” he commanded, then left the room.
Harriet closed her eyes, her lids simply too heavy to stay up any longer. She surrendered to whatever he had mixed into her wine. As she slipped into the darkness swallowing her up, she vowed that she would kill him if she survived the night.
4
Redmond stared at the wisp of a woman lying in his bed, trying to stop himself from feeling the guilt of his actions. She had been badly hurt—she still was—and it was made abundantly clear by the tip of her rapier that she did not trust him at all, and he couldn’t blame her, given how he’d behaved. He also feared that she may have been a bit mad with panic. Surely only a woman half out of her mind and desperate would enter into his den, given what was said about him.
He’d not wanted to drug her, but as the evening wore on and her distrust showed no sign of easing, he’d had the cook slip laudanum into the wine. No doubt when she woke, she would be furious and vindicated in her distrust of him, but at least she would be well rested, and her arm would be cleaned and healing.
He had grown used to acting like a wicked man, threatening ravishment of more than one young lady foolish enough to come to his door. Not that he would have done it, but sometimes it took quite a lot to scare a marriage-minded woman away. But this one? She’d had a fear unlike the others in her eyes, as though she’d felt the fear of a man forcibly taking her before. It had shocked Redmond, and he had changed tactics, allowing her to take a sword in defense, only to have her best him like a master fencer. He’d been confused at first by her obvious skill with a blade and wondered what made her so desperate to draw upon it first in defense. He hated to think a woman like her, with such wit and bravery, would have faced something terrible like that.
So, Edward Russell’s daughter was in his bed… He shook his head and moved for the door, resolved to think on the mystery of how she’d ended up here later when he had a chance to talk to her after she woke up.
Redmond met his butler in the hall. “Ah, Grindle. Did you find Miss Russell’s coach?”
Grindle’s face was lined with weariness, and he scrubbed a hand through his hair as he faced Redmond.
“I did, Your Grace. The grooms brought the horses and the driver back. It was as she told me. The coach was overturned and the driver badly injured. A broken leg, as far as I can tell.”
“Summon the doctor. They may remain here as long as needed. I give you permission to see to the driver’s needs. And Miss Russell must also be seen to when the doctor arrives. Have him set the man’s leg first and then come directly to my chambers.”
Grindle nodded, weariness etched in his features. “Yes, of course, Your Grace.”
“One last thing, Grindle.”
His butler waited expectantly.
“You and the rest of the staff are to go to bed once this is all settled. No need to rise early on the morrow. Sleep a few hours extra. You all must be half-dead from tonight’s events.”
Grindle’s shoulders relaxed, and he offered his master a genuine smile. “Thank you, Your Grace. We would appreciate it.”
The butler headed back downstairs, and Redmond paced the corridor, his boots hushing against expensive oriental carpets as he debated how best to proceed.
When he could put it off no longer, he returned to his bedchamber and sat on the edge of his bed to examine the girl again. The laudanum and alcohol had worked its magic, and she was fast asleep, no pain marring her lovely features. She was not what one would call a classic beauty, but he found her pleasing to look at, the soft curve of her cheek, her dark-gold lashes and wet blonde hair that looked like liquid ropes of burnished gold where it clung to her face and shoulders. He reached out with a trembling hand to touch her forehead. She was still damp and slightly cold. He scowled at the wet clothes she wore. The girl needed to be put into something much warmer, but it was not his place to do so. He knew he was tempting himself by putting her in his chamber, but he couldn’t seem to accept the idea of sending her away to one of the dozens of other rooms. It felt…wrong.
Redmond pulled the bell cord. When his valet, Timothy, arrived, he sent him to fetch one of the upstairs maids.
Maisie, a sprightly Scottish lass recently hired on as an upstairs maid, arrived a few minutes later. “You sent for me, Your Grace?” She was hesitant in the way that a maid would be when summoned to the master’s chambers after midnight, especially given his reputation. But his staff had nothing to fear.
