‘Be quiet and listen.’

His chin tilted down. His brows rose. ‘Yes, Miss Cherroll?’

‘I will not stay here.’

He waited, his gaze locked onto hers.

‘My sister needs me for the children,’ she said.

‘I understand completely,’ he said, his voice agreeable, and stepped to the door. ‘You can take my carriage to visit them as often as you wish.’

One stride and he would be out of her vision.

‘It is not a problem at all. Send your maid in Warrington’s carriage for your things. The housekeeper will be with you shortly to help you select a room.’

He was gone by the time she opened her mouth.

AUTHOR NOTE

Bellona’s story was formed while I was writing my previous book, A Captain and a Rogue.

I first envisaged her as wanting to be like the Grecian heroine Laskarina Bouboulina, who owned a large warship and would have been active around 1822, when Forbidden to the Duke begins. I also planned for Bellona to be a bit of a Robin Hood in spirit. With knife and archery skills that can protect her from many dangers—except the most surprising ones.

But Bellona became a different character from the warrior I first imagined. When this story begins she’s on the path to separation from the security of her family and making her own world. The new hobby she finds at the end of the book wasn’t planned until the words were being written, but I feel it truly expresses who she was meant to be, and the part of her she’s hidden from herself.

I hope you enjoy Bellona and Rhys’s journey, and that you see them as I do—two people who have to step out of the roles they were born into and rise to be the beginnings of a new legacy.

Forbidden

to the Duke

Liz Tyner

www.millsandboon.co.uk

LIZ TYNER lives with her husband on an Oklahoma acreage she imagines is similar to the ones in the children’s book Where the Wild Things Are. Her lifestyle is a blend of old and new, and is sometimes comparable to the way people lived long ago. Liz is a member of various writing groups and has been writing since childhood. For more about her visit liztyner.com.

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To Juanita Ballew, ‘Sis’, a real heroine.

Contents

Cover

Introduction

AUTHOR NOTE

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Epilogue

Extract

Copyright

Chapter One

The pudgy-eyed gamekeeper pointed a flintlock straight at Bellona’s chest. His eyebrows spiked into angry points. ‘Drop the longbow.’ His gun barrel emphasised his words and even without the weapon his size would have daunted her. He’d not looked so large or his stare so bloodless from a distance.

Noise crashed into her ears—the sound of her heart—and the beats tried to take over every part of her. She forced the blackness away and locked her stare with his. Charred hatred, roughened by the unshaven chin, slammed out from his face.

She nodded and tossed the bow into the twining berry thorns at the side of the path. The canopy of sycamore leaves covered him in green-hued shadows.

He put one hand to his mouth, thrust his fingers to his lips and whistled loud enough to be heard in Greece. The shrill sound jabbed her, alerting her that he wasn’t alone. She’d never seen anyone else in the forest but this devil. She would be fighting two men and at least one weapon.

‘...shoot at me...’ He spoke again and the words snapped her back into understanding.

She cursed herself for not taking more care. She’d not heard him behind her—but she should have smelled his boiled-cabbage stench.

‘I be bringing his lordship,’ he said. ‘Your toes be dangling and the tide be washing your face before they cut you down. You won’t be shooting at me no more. You’re nothing more’n a common wench and people in lofty places be wantin’ you to hang.’

Her fingers stiffened, her mind unable to send them commands. She held her chin high. She’d thought she was in a safe land. She’d thought she’d escaped men who wanted to hurt her. Showing fear would be dangerous. ‘You—’ She couldn’t have taken her eyes from his. ‘I’m a guest of the Earl of Warrington and I have misplaced myself.’

The man’s nose bunched up as he talked. ‘But you ain’t on the earl’s land now, Miss Lady Nobody. You’re no better’n me.’ He waved the gun. ‘You’re a poacher and I’ve seen you here aplenty times before. I just niver could catch you.’

‘The earl will be thymomenos, angered.’

He snorted. ‘But this is the duke’s land. His Grace don’t lose no sleep over what an earl would think.’

She forced her fingers alert. ‘You are the one who should think. You must know I live near.’

‘But you ain’t no real lady. I already told the duke all about you and how you been scattering my traps and he thinks I’m imaginin’. Your eyes is even uncommon dark like some witch borne you. I told him you’re half-spirit. They hanged Mary Bateman. If they don’t be hangin’ you, you’ll end up lyin’ with vermin in gaol. Good ’nuff for you.’

He indicated the trail behind himself by swinging the barrel of the gun towards it. ‘Don’t move a feather.’ The gamekeeper swaggered. ‘His Grace be right behind me. I told him I set my traps near and this time I be catchin’ somethin’ big. You’ve ruined your last snare.’

Footsteps in the leaves signalled the approach of another. Bellona rested her left hand on the top of arrows tucked into the quiver strapped around her waist. ‘You can go to the devil.’

The shoulders of another man came into view, and Bellona swallowed. She needed all of her strength. Two men to fight.

The gamekeeper stepped off the path so the other one could see her.

The duke stopped beside the gamekeeper and the scent of the air became clean. The newcomer examined her, not scowling or smiling.

She would not have thought this man a peer had she seen him without introduction, but she would have known him for a gentleman. His neckcloth looped in a simple, soft knot. His boots reached his knees and his dark riding coat had plain buttons. He wore every thread as if it had been woven to his own order. Sunlight dappled over lean cheeks. His eyes were the same colour as her own.

Her stomach clenched, but not with fear. She’d made a mistake. She’d looked into his eyes. For the first time in her life, she was afraid of something inside herself.

She stepped back.

‘Your Grace, I caught the murderous culprit what’s been stealing the hares from my traps and wishin’ curses on us all. She be a common thief, a murderous woman and full of meanness, just like I said.’ The gamekeeper’s words spewed out, leaving even less air for Bellona to breathe. ‘You want I should send the stable boy for the magistrate?’

The duke gave the slightest shake of his head. ‘You are mistaken, Wicks. I will see her back to my estate safely and ensure that she is escorted on her way.’

‘She be a thief, Your Grace, and a bewitched woman. Why, see how her eyes be puttin’ evil my direction now. She be tryin’ to burn me into ash right where I stand.’

‘Miss—’ the newcomer directed his words to Bellona and he leaned forward as he peered at her ‘—have you been poaching on my land?’

She sensed somehow that he jested with her. ‘No. Never,’ Bellona said, shaking her head. The knife was in her boot. But she didn’t want to attack. She only wanted to flee.

The duke’s lips firmed and he took in a small breath on his next words. ‘Wicks...’

The gamekeeper’s stance tightened and he rushed his words. ‘She tossed her bow into the briars. She’d kill a man herself for blood sport. She’d cut out his heart and cook it.’

The duke’s lips tightened at one side and his eyes dismissed the other man’s words.

‘I don’t eat hearts,’ Bellona inserted, directing a look straight into the vile man. ‘Only brains. You are safe.’

‘Your Grace,’ the gamekeeper sputtered, outrage and fury mixed. ‘She’s—’

‘Quiet.’ The duke’s words thrust into the air with the seriousness of a sword point held to the throat.

He stepped towards her, moving over the fallen log in the path, his hand out. ‘The lady and I have not been introduced, but as this isn’t a soirée, I think—’

Instinctively, she pulled an arrow from the quiver and held the tip against the duke’s grey silk waistcoat—pressing.

His arm halted, frozen.

‘Do not touch me.’ Her words copied his in command.

His eyes widened and he straightened. ‘I was going to take your arm. My pardon. It’s usually received well, I assure you.’

She kept the arrow at his stomach, trying to keep the spirit around him from overtaking her.

The gamekeeper moved so the weapon again pointed at her. ‘Just give me the word, Your Grace, I’ll save you. She be tryin’ to kill a peer. No sense wasting good rope round that boney neck.’

‘Put the flintlock away, Wicks. Now.’ The duke didn’t take his eyes from Bellona. ‘This woman and I have not finished introductions yet and, by my calculation, the arrow tip isn’t exceedingly sharp.’

‘It’s sharp enough,’ she said.

‘Miss...’ He blinked. He smiled. But they were just outward movements. ‘Most people get to know me a little better before they think of weapons. Perhaps you should consider that. It might make an attempt on my life more enjoyable for you if there were some justification.’

She never saw his movement, but his hand clamped around her wrist, securing her, not tight, but shackle-strong.

‘My property.’ He stepped back from the arrow. Then he extricated it from her fingers, the warm touch of his hand capturing her in yet another way before he released her. ‘My rules, Huntress.’ He studied her face. ‘Or if my observation is correct, should I refer to you as goddess?’

As he examined the arrow, she took another step back. She gave the merest head toss of dismissal and readied her hand to the single arrow left in the quiver.

His eyes flickered to the sharpened tip of the projectile he held, but he wasn’t truly examining it. He twirled it around, tipped his head to her and held the feathered end to her. ‘I have met the lovely Countess of Warrington and although you resemble her, I would remember if I’d met you. That means you’re the sister named for the goddess of war. The woman hardly ever seen.’

‘You may call me Miss Cherroll.’ The rules she’d studied fled from her, except the one about the curtsy and she could not force herself to do it. She took the arrow.

She only wanted to leave, but her limbs hadn’t yet recovered their strength. She controlled her voice, putting all the command in it she could muster. ‘You’re not what I expected.’

‘If you’ve been talking to Warrington, I suppose not.’ He tilted his head forward, as if he secluded them from the rest of the world. ‘What is he fed for breakfast? I fear it curdles his stomach—daily.’

‘Only when mixed with entertainments not to his liking.’

‘Well, that explains it. I can be quite entertaining.’

‘He claims you can be quite...’ She paused. His eyes waited for her to continue, but she didn’t think it prudent, either to Warrington or the duke.

The duke continued, taking in the words she didn’t say. ‘Not many are above him, and, well, I might give him the tiniest reminder of my status, when it is needed.’ He shrugged. ‘Our fathers were like brothers. He thinks he has become the old earl and I have not attained the grandness of my sire. My father did limp—and that knee was the only thing that kept him from perfection. The injured leg was the price he paid for doing the right thing. He once thrust himself between someone and the hooves of an angry horse.’

‘I would not be so certain of the earl’s opinion.’ She paused, softening her words. ‘He says you are quite the perfect duke. A duke from heel to head.’ Warrington had stared at the ceiling and grimaced when he spoke.

‘A compliment. I’m certain. From Warrington.’ He shrugged. ‘Too many things distract me from perfection. I just trudge along, doing what I can. Hoping to honour the legacy my father left behind.’

He turned to the other man, sending him along. ‘I’ll see Miss Cherroll home.’ Taking a step towards her, he paused when she moved the pointed tip the slightest bit in his direction. ‘Assuming she doesn’t do Warrington a boon and impale his favourite neighbour.’

When he stopped moving, she relaxed her hand.

‘I will manage well enough on my own.’ She turned, pulling the skirt’s hem from a bramble, and moved closer to the bow. ‘I know the way.’ She heard her own words and turned back to the duke and leaned her head to the side. ‘I have been lost here before.’ She pulled the bow into her hand, freeing it from the thorny brambles clasping it.

‘I would imagine so. Wicks claims you are here more than he is. I might call on you,’ he said, ‘later today to assure myself you arrived safely home.’

She shook her head. ‘Please don’t. Warrington is always claiming I bring home strange things from my walks.’

‘My dear, I’m a duke. He won’t be able to say a word. It’s a rule of sorts.’

‘You truly don’t know him well, do you?’

‘Well, perhaps he might grumble, but his good breeding would insist he appear welcoming. At least in your presence.’

She held the nock end of the arrow as if she were going to seat it against the bowstring. ‘You’re right in that my English father named me for the Roman goddess of war. And, it’s said I’m completely lacking in the ways of a proper Englishwoman. But I do remember one phrase. “I am not at home.”’

‘Miss Cherroll. I would think you’d not mind sharing tea with me seeing as you have already shared my property.’

She shook her head. ‘I have been called on before. I have not been at home.’

‘Ever?’

She firmed her lips and shook her head.

‘Why not?’

She didn’t answer his question. She could not speak of her memories aloud. Putting them into words brought the feel of the rough fingertips to her neck.

His brows furrowed. Even though she knew a proper lady didn’t scurry along the trail, she did, leaving the duke standing behind her.

* * *

Rhys Harling, Duke of Rolleston, sat at his desk, completely unmoving. Wicks stood in front of Rhys, repeating the same words he’d said two days ago and the two days before that. Rhys hoped the air would clear of the man’s dank scent when he left.

Wicks waved the arrow like a sceptre. His lips didn’t stop moving even when he paused to find new words.

Wicks rambled on, falling more in love with his discourse as he continued. If the gamekeeper were to be believed, the woman created more mischief than any demon.

It had been five days since Wicks had caught the woman. The gamekeeper had approached him twice to discuss the lands and could not keep from mentioning her.

Rhys interrupted, his voice direct. ‘She did not try to impale me. Neither her teeth nor her eyes—which are not rimmed by devil’s soot—show brighter than any other’s in the dusk and she is not as tall as I am. You cannot claim her to be something she is not. I forbid it.’

‘You can’t be faultin’ me for lookin’ out for your lands, Your Grace.’

‘I don’t. But she’s the earl’s guest. You must cease talking at the tavern about the woman.’

‘Who told you?’ His chin dropped and he looked at the floor.

‘Who didn’t tell me?’ Rhys fixed a stare at the man. ‘Wicks, you should know that words travel from one set of ears to the next and the next and before long every person who has shared a meal with someone else has heard.’

‘She does stick in my craw, Your Grace.’

He didn’t blame the gamekeeper. Rhys couldn’t remove her from his mind either. The quiver cinched her trim waist. A twig had poked from her mussed hair. The magical thing he’d noticed about her was the way her hair could stay in a knot on her head when most of it had escaped.

Rhys had known when the gamekeeper first mentioned the trespasser who it would most likely be. He’d wanted to see her for himself.

Wicks wasn’t the first person to discuss her. Even the duchess, who talked only of family members who’d passed on, had varied from her melancholia once and spoke of the earl’s sister-by-law Miss Cherroll. The foreign-born woman rarely let herself be seen by anyone outside the earl’s household and that caused more talk than if she’d danced three dances with the same partner.

‘Forget her,’ the duke said. ‘She’s just an ordinary woman who likes to traipse the trails. I can’t fault her for that.’

He couldn’t. He’d travelled over those same trails countless times, trying to keep up with his brother, Geoff.

Looking for the woman had been the first time he’d been in the woods since Geoff’s death. The gnashing ache grinded inside him again, but the woman’s face reminded him of unspoiled times.

But she was...a poacher of sorts. Nothing like her sister—a true countess if tales were to be believed. He wouldn’t put it past Warrington to keep this bow-carrying family member in the shadows, afraid what would happen if the woman met with members of the ton.

‘You didn’t feel she could near strangle a man with one look from her eyes?’ Wicks asked. ‘I could feel that devil in her just trying to take my vicar’s words right from mind. She still be trespassin’ ever’ day. Taunting me, like. She tears up my traps and she lurks out in the wood, waiting until I check them and then she tries to kill me.’

‘I’m sure she’s not trying to kill you.’

‘This arrow weren’t whipping by your head.’ He pulled every muscle of his body into an indignant shudder. ‘And since I caught her last time, she stays too far back for me to snatch her again.’

‘You will not touch her.’ Rhys met Wicks’s stare. Rhys stood.

Wicks’s lips pressed together.

‘You will not touch her,’ Rhys said again and waited.

‘I don’t want no part of that evil witch,’ Wicks said finally. ‘I looked at her and I saw the Jezebel spirit in her. I be sleepin’ on the floor and not in my bed so she can’t visit me in my night hours and have her way with me.’

Rhys put both palms flat on the desk and leaned forward. ‘That is a good plan. However, if you sleep with your nightcap over your ears it will do the same.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘Yes.’ Rhys nodded.

Wicks’s lips moved almost for a full minute before he spoke and his shoulders were pulled tight and he watched the arrow in his hand. ‘Well, I’ll be considerin’ it. Floor’s cold.’

‘Do you think perhaps she is a normal kind-hearted woman, Wicks, and merely doesn’t want little creatures harmed?’

‘I wondered. But that seems odd to me. When I gave her my smile—’ He bared perfect teeth except for one missing at the bottom. ‘She didn’t even note. Just raised her bow right towards me and let this arrow loose.’

Rhys rose, walked around the desk and held out his hand. Wicks slowly placed the arrow across Rhys’s palm.

‘If you see her again,’ Rhys commanded, ‘at any time at any place, you are not to give her one moment of anything but respect. You are not to smile at her or approach her, or you will answer to me in a way you will not like.’

‘Not right,’ Wicks said, his nose going up. ‘Being shot at while doin’ my work.’

‘I will handle this. Do not forget my words. Leave her be.’

‘I will,’ Wicks said. ‘I pity her. Has too many airs to settle into things right for a woman’s place.’

Rhys glared.

‘But I be keepin’ it a secret.’ He nodded. ‘I ain’t givin’ her another one of my smiles. She missed her chance. And if she tries to have her way with me, I be turnin’ my head and keepin’ my nightcap tight.’

He used both hands to clamp his hat on his head as he shuffled out, grumbling.

Rhys studied the arrow and thought of his mother’s melancholia. How she hardly left her room, even for meals. How she talked more of people who’d passed than of her own friends, and how she claimed illness rather than go to Sunday Services. His brother’s death had taken the life from her as well. The one moment the duchess’s thoughts had wavered into the present had been when she asked Rhys if he’d heard of the earl’s guest, but by the time he’d answered, his mother’s thoughts had wavered back into the shadows of the past.

He brushed his hand over the arrow fletching. Window light bounced over the feathers, almost startling him. Raising his eyes, he saw the sun’s rays warming the room. He stood, walking to the sunlight, pausing to feel the heat on his face. He lifted the feathery end of the weapon, twirling it in the brightness.

Winter’s chill had left the air, but he’d not noticed the green outside the window until now. The woman had also worn the colours of the forest, he remembered. She’d not looked like a warrior goddess, but a woodland nymph, bringing life into morning.

He snorted, amazed at the folly of his imagination. He’d not had such foolish thoughts in a long time. Nor had he longed for a woman’s comfort overmuch in the past year. Now, he imagined the huntress and his body responded, sending reminders of pleasure throughout his being.

Leaning into the window frame, holding the arrow like a talisman, he tried to remember every single aspect of her. What she’d said and how she’d looked. Each word and moment that had transpired between them.

He pulled the soft end of the arrow up, looking at the feathers one last time before tapping the nock against the sill, staring at the reflections of sunlight.

This woman at the earl’s estate, who was willing to fight for rabbits, but could keep the servants whispering about her, might be just the woman who could bring his mother back to life. She’d already reminded Rhys that he was still alive.

* * *

Within the hour, Rhys was in the Earl of Warrington’s sitting room. The duke clasped an arrow at his side and waited as he expected he might. He moved to the window again, wanting to feel the heat from the sun streaming through the panes. Trees budded back to life. A heathen spirit might do the same for his own home.

The mantel sported a painting of three young girls playing while their mother watched. He wagered the painting was of Greece and one of the girls could have been the one on his property. Except for the single painting, the room seemed little different than Rhys’s own library.

Rhys looked out over Warrington’s snipped and clipped and trimmed and polished world, almost able to hear the laughter from years before.

Only, the laughter was not his, but directed at him.

Of course, both he and Warrington had matured now. They had left foolish prattle and childish games behind.

Warrington strode in. Rhys could still taste the medicinal the others had found in the apothecary jar and forced into Rhys’s mouth when they were children. That had to be his earliest memory.

‘Your Grace,’ Warrington greeted. The earl moved to stand at the mantel. He glanced once at the painting above it before he asked, ‘So what is the honour that brings you to Whitegate?’

Rhys held out the arrow. ‘I found this on my property and heard that you have a guest who practises archery. I’d like to return it to her.’

Rhys had never seen Warrington’s face twitch until that moment. He studied Rhys as if they’d just started a boxing match. ‘You are interested in talking with Bellona?’

Warrington’s eyes flickered. ‘I’m sure whatever she did—’ Warrington spoke quickly. ‘She just doesn’t understand our ways.’ He paused and then sighed. ‘What did she do now?’

‘I just wish to meet with her,’ Rhys said, ‘and request that she refrain from shooting arrows on to my property—particularly near others.’

Warrington grimaced and then turned it into a smile. ‘She does... Well...you know...’ He held out a palm. ‘Some women like jewellery. Flowers. Sharp things. She likes them.’

‘Sharp things?’

Warrington shook his head. ‘Never a dull moment around her.’

‘Truly?’

‘Beautiful voice—when she’s not talking. Her sister forced her to attend the soirée at Riverton’s, hoping Bellona would find something about society that suited her. Pottsworth wanted to be introduced. She’d not danced with anyone. I thought it a good idea even though he is—well, you know Potts. She smiled and answered him in Greek. Thankfully none of the ladies near her had our tutors. Riverton overheard and choked on his snuff. We left before he stopped sputtering. He still asks after her every time he sees me. “How is that retiring Miss Cherroll?”’

‘Can’t say as I blame her. You introduced Pottsworth to her?’ Rhys asked drily.

‘I’m sure she might wander too far afield from time to time,’ Warrington murmured it away, ‘but your land has joined mine since before our grandparents’ time and we’ve shared it as one.’ Warrington gave an encompassing gesture, then he toyed with what could have been a speck on the mantel. ‘We’re all like family. We grew up together. I know you and I don’t have the very close bond of our fathers, but still, I count you much the same as a brother of my own.’

‘Much like Cain and Abel?’

Warrington grinned. He waved the remark away. ‘You’ve never taken a jest well.’

‘The bull,’ Rhys said, remembering the very incensed animal charging towards him, bellowing. Rhys was on the wrong side of the fence, his hands on the rails, and the older boys pushed at him, keeping him from climbing to safety. He’d felt the heat from the bull’s nostrils when they’d finally hefted him through to the other side. Laughing.

He couldn’t have been much more than five years old.

Warrington had instigated many of the unpleasant moments of Rhys’s childhood. Actually, almost every disastrous circumstance could be traced back to War. Rhys had been lured into a carriage and then trapped when they wedged the door shut from the outside, and then he’d spent hours in the barn loft when they had removed the ladder. When they’d held him down and stained his cheeks with berries, he’d waited almost two years to return fresh manure to everyone involved. It had taken special planning and the assistance of the stable master’s son to get manure put into Warrington’s boots.

Rhys’s mother and father had not been happy. The one time he had not minded disappointing his father.

War’s face held camaraderie now—just like when the new puppy had been left in the carriage, supposedly.

‘I must speak with your wife’s sister,’ Rhys said. ‘I might have an idea which could help us both.’

‘What?’ The word darted from Warrington’s lips.

‘I thought Miss Cherroll might spend some time with the duchess. Perhaps speak of Greece or...’ He shrugged. ‘Whatever tales she might have learned.’

‘I forbid—’ Warrington’s head snapped sideways. ‘No. She is my family and she must stay with us.’

Rhys lips quirked up. ‘But, War, we’re like brothers. Your family is my family.’

Warrington grunted. ‘You didn’t believe that flop when I said it. Don’t try to push it back in my direction.’

Rhys smiled. ‘I suppose it is your decision to make, War. But remember. I am serious and I will not back down.’

‘I assure you, Rhys, Miss Cherroll is not the gentle sort that the duchess is used to having tea with.’

Rhys gave a slight twitch of his shoulder in acknowledgement. Warrington had no idea his mother was only having tea with memories of death. She’d lost her will to live. With her gone, he would have no one. No one of his true family left. And he was not ready to lose the last one. ‘Call Miss Cherroll. Let me decide.’

With a small cough of disagreement, Warrington shrugged. ‘Speak with her and you’ll see what I mean.’ He reached for the pull. A child’s laughing screech interrupted him. A blonde blur of a chit, hardly big enough to manage the stairs, hurtled into the room and crashed into Warrington’s legs, hugging for dear life, and whirling so he stood between her and the door.

Bellona, brandishing a broom, charged in behind the little one and halted instantly at the sight of Warrington.

Rhys took in a breath and instantly understood Wicks’s fascination with the woman. Her face, relaxed in laughter, caught his eyes. He couldn’t look away—no man would consider it.

‘Just sweeping the dust out of the nursery,’ she said to Warrington, lowering the broom while she gingerly moved around him. The child used him as a shield.

Warrington’s hand shot down on to the little girl’s head, hair shining golden in the sunlight, stilling her.

Bellona’s attention centred on the waif. ‘Willa, we do not run in the house. We swim like fishes.’

The child laughed, pulled away from the silent admonishment of her father’s hand on her head, puffed her cheeks out and left the room quickly, making motions of gliding through water.

Warrington cleared his throat before the chase began again. ‘We have a guest, Bellona.’

Rhys saw the moment Bellona became aware of his presence. The broom tensed and for half a second he wondered if she would drop it or turn it into a weapon. Warrington was closer, and Rhys was completely willing to let her pummel him.

She lowered the bristles to the floor, but managed a faint curtsy and said, ‘I did not know we had a visitor.’ Her face became as stiff as the broom handle.

Warrington turned to Rhys.

‘Bellona is... She gets on quite well with the children as you can tell.’ His eyes glanced over to her. ‘But she is not as entranced with tranquillity as her sister is.’

‘I do like the English ways,’ she said, shrugging. ‘I just think my ways are also good.’

‘But my children need to be well mannered at all times.’ Warrington frowned after he spoke.

‘I do adore the paidi. They are gold,’ she said, voice prim and proper. ‘But no little one is well mannered at all times. They have life. It is their treasure. They should spend it well.’

‘They should also know the way to be proper and comport themselves in a lofty manner when they meet such a person as we are privileged to have in our presence.’ He glanced at Rhys. ‘His Grace, Duke of Rolleston. Rescuer of lost puppies, everywhere.’ He turned to Bellona to complete the introduction. ‘Miss Cherroll, my wife’s kind and gentle-spirited youngest sister—’ his brows bumped up as he looked back at Rhys ‘—who has called me a few endearments in her native language that our tutor neglected to teach us, and when her sister translates I fear something is lost in the meaning.’

Her eyes blinked with innocence at Warrington for a moment before she acknowledged the introduction with a slight nod.

‘I believe the duke wanted to speak with you.’ Warrington walked to her, took the broom and looked at it as if might bite. ‘And I should see about Willa.’

The earl took two long strides to the door. ‘I won’t send a chaperon.’ He smiled at Rhys as he left. ‘You’re on your own.’

Chapter Two

Pleased Warrington had left them alone, Rhys’s attention turned to Bellona. She’d moved a step back from him and stood close to an unlit lamp on a side table. Her eyes remained on the arrow in his hand.

Perhaps he’d been mistaken about her. She might be unsettled.

Bellona nodded towards the arrow. ‘I believe that is mine.’

Rhys grasped the shaft with both hands and snapped the arrow across his knee, breaking the wood in two pieces. Then he held it in her direction.

The straight line of her lips softened. Her shoulders relaxed and she moved just close enough so that he could place the arrow in her hand. Exotic spices lingered in the air around her and he tried to discern if it was the same perfume from a rare plant he’d once noted in a botanist’s collection.

‘Thank you.’ She took the splintered pieces and increased the distance between them. Examining the broken shaft, she said, ‘I feared you would not be so kind as to return it.’

‘You could have injured someone. My gamekeeper.’

She raised her eyes to Rhys. ‘The arrow did what arrows do. I didn’t want to hurt him, but he—’ Bellona dismissed the words. ‘His voice... You should speak with him about glossa—his words.’

‘Leave the poor man alone. He has been on my estate his whole life and feels as much kinship to the land as I do.’

‘A man cannot own land. It is a gift from the heavens to be shared.’

‘For the time being, it is my gift and I control all on it. You upset the gamekeeper.’

She shrugged. ‘He upsets rabbits.’

‘They are invited. You are not. However...’ His next words were about to change that, but he forgot he was speaking when her hand moved.

Flicking up the notched end of the arrow, she brushed the feathery fletching against her face. The arrow stroked her skin. One. Two. Three little brushes. Softness against softness.

His heart pounded blood everywhere around his body except his head.

He remembered where he was, but not what he’d been saying. He looked at her eyes, checking for artifice, wondering if she knew how he reacted to her.

‘I do not know if this is a good idea.’ He spoke barely above a whisper.

‘The traps are a bad idea. Wrong. Thinking you own the earth is not correct.’ She moved her hand to her side, the arrow tip pointed in his direction.

Traps? That problem was easily solved.

‘At the soirée, what did you say to Pottsworth in Greek that was so shocking?’ he asked.

She raised her brows.

‘Never mind.’ He turned away. Walking to the painting, he looked at it. An idyllic scene with a sea in the background. Waves lapped the sand and breezes brought the scent of moisture to him. ‘Are you one of the little girls in the painting?’ He raised his finger, almost touching the long-dried oils. She had to be the youngest one—the urchin had grown into the woman behind him.

‘Miss Cherroll.’ He turned back. ‘Are you the little one in the picture?’

‘It is just a painting. From my homeland.’

‘Tell me about yourself.’

‘No. You broke my arrow.’

‘I beg your pardon.’ He turned to her and locked his clasped hands behind his back. This intractable woman and his mother would not get on well at all. Such a foolish thought.

‘You do not mean to beg my pardon,’ she said. ‘You just speak it because it is what you have always said.’

‘I’ll buy you a score of arrows to replace this one if you merely promise you will not shoot in the direction of a person. I was making a point.’

She waved a hand his direction. ‘Keep your arrows. I have many of them.’

‘Well, I must be going. You’re not quite as I expected. Thank you for your time. I sincerely regret breaking your arrow.’ He stopped. ‘No, I don’t. However, I will see that more are sent your way. Please be careful with them and do not practise archery on my land.’

She didn’t speak.

He strode to the door. This woman could not reside with his mother. He did not know how he could have imagined such a thing. But he just did not know what to do. He turned back. He could not go out that door.

‘You may visit my land whenever you wish.’ He didn’t recognise his own voice. His words sounded parched to his ears—the same as when he was little more than a youth and requested his first dance from a woman whose eyes glittered with sensual knowledge.

‘I will not shoot near the gamekeeper any more unless he comes too close to me.’ Her tone commanded, but underneath there might have been a waver in it. His thoughts raced ahead.

‘But be aware he is not a nice man,’ she continued. ‘He has killed—he has killed them after taking them from the trap. With his foot.’ Her voice dipped. ‘It is—it is bad. He does not care.’

He turned away so he could concentrate and put his hand on the door frame, sorting his thoughts, listening with his whole body. ‘He said you shot at him.’

‘Yes. I was watching the traps to see if he’d caught anything. I was going to free the animals. But he was early. He knew. He saw me and he walked closer and I thought of the rabbits. The rabbits. What man could do that to another living creature? I could not let him near me. I shot at the ground between us. He stopped.’

‘It is his job to watch for poachers.’ He slid his hand from the wood and moved just enough to hold her in his line of vision.

‘Nothing should be trapped like that.’

He asked the other question again. ‘What did you say to Pottsworth?’

‘The man at the soirée?’

‘Yes.’

‘I was in the gardens because I did not want to be with the people. I heard him speak to another man and say I was ripe for his hands. I only told him what would happen if he touched me, although I did not say it pleasantly. I knew he could understand my language. Warrington had told us that most men at the soirée had been tutored in Greek.’

‘I have heard that your parents are no longer with us,’ Rhys asked, tactfully changing the subject.

She touched a finger to the tip of the arrow. ‘My mana is not alive. I miss her still. I miss her more now than when she died, because she has been gone from me longer.’

He stepped closer, into the whiff of her perfume—until he realised it wasn’t only the exotic scent around her, but that of fresh bread. His eyes snapped to hers.

The arrow tip followed his movement, but he didn’t care about that.

‘Have you been in the...cooking area?’ he asked.

She waved her palm the barest bit. ‘The staff here works hard. They do not need me watching over them.’

He edged forward and she stepped back. ‘You have a dusting of white on your face,’ he said.

She reached up, brushing, but missed it.

A duke simply did not reach out and touch a woman’s face, particularly upon their first proper introduction. But he did. Warm, buttery sensations flowed inside him. His midsection vibrated, but it was with the outward pressure against his waistcoat. If he looked down, he knew he’d see the tip of the arrow pressed there again. But the broken arrow wasn’t so long and it connected their bodies too closely. His blood pounded hot and fast. Blast. This was not good. He’d been too long in the country where he had to take such care because his movements were watched so closely. He needed to get to London soon and find a woman.

She smiled. ‘I use the arrows as my chaperon.’

‘Perhaps a maid would be better instead?’ He reached the slightest bit to nudge the arrow away, but stopped before connecting with the wood. If his hand touched hers, that would be more than he wanted to deal with.

He moved back, freeing himself in more ways than one, and examined his fingers while rubbing the white powder between thumb and forefinger. He was fairly certain it was flour or some such. Something one dusted on the top of cakes or used in producing meals.

‘You have been in a kitchen.’

‘I—’ Her chin jutted. ‘I do not...visit the kitchen. Often.’

He shrugged. ‘I do not mind. It just surprises me.’ He lowered his voice. ‘You shot at my gamekeeper—I don’t see why you’d have a problem with going into the servants’ area.’

He wasn’t in the mood to complain about her at the moment. But he must keep his thoughts straight. She had put a weapon against his waistcoat. She ran through the woods, tormenting a gamekeeper. She’d traipsed in the kitchen with the servants, chased a child with a broom in the sitting room and probably would not be able to respond quietly in the bedchamber as a decent woman should. He clamped his teeth together.

This woman was as untamed as the creatures she freed. She might be a relation of Warrington’s, but one always had an errant relative who did not do as they should.

‘I—’ She stepped back. And now the broken arrow rested against her bodice. ‘I cannot let the rabbits be trapped. I cannot.’

‘I suppose I understand.’ He did understand. More than she thought. She had a weakness for rabbits and right now his weakness was for soft curves and compassionate eyes. He must clear his head. No matter what it took, he must clear his head.

‘I would like to reassure you,’ he said, ‘that the rabbits will soon be holding soirées among the parsnips and their smiling teeth will be green-stained from all the vegetables they harvest. The traps are to be removed. You do not have to check my lands. No more traps.’

‘Thank you.’ She nodded. ‘It is a relief.’

‘In return, I would like very much for you to have tea with my mother tomorrow,’ he said. He heard the youth still in his voice. That strange sound. Too much sincerity for the simple question. ‘Please consider it. My mother is very alone right now,’ he quickly added.

She moved, still grasping the arrow pieces, but her hand rested on the spine of the sofa. She studied his face. ‘I don’t... The English customs...’

She was going to say no and he couldn’t let her. He had to explain.

‘My mother will not know you are arriving and I will summon her once you are there. Otherwise she may not leave her room.’ His chuckle was dry. ‘She likely will not leave her chamber, unless I insist. But as you understand what it is like to miss a person you care for, I would appreciate your spending a few moments speaking with the duchess. Perhaps she will feel less alone.’

She didn’t speak.

‘My brother has passed recently. My father died almost two years ago, soon after my older sister and her new husband perished in a fire while visiting friends. My mother is becoming less herself with each passing day. She misses her family more with each hour.’ He controlled his voice, removing all emotion. ‘She is trapped—by memories—and only feels anger and self-pity.’

‘I will visit your mana.’ She spoke matter-of-factly. ‘And if she does not wish to leave her chamber, I do not mind at all. I will visit her there.’

He turned, nodding, and with a jerk of his chin indicated the arrow in her hand.

‘Would you really hurt me?’ he asked.

Something flickered behind her eyes. Some memory he could never see.

‘I hope I could,’ she said. ‘I tell myself every day that I will be strong enough.’

‘You wish to kill someone?’

She shook her head, tousled hair falling softly, and for a moment she didn’t look like the woman she was, but reminded him of a lost waif. ‘No. I wish to be strong enough.’

‘Have you ever...hurt anyone?’

She shook her head. ‘No. I know of no woman who has ever killed a man, except my grandmother, Gigia.’

He waited.

‘A man, from a ploio. A ship. He was not good. He killed one of the women from our island and hurt another one almost to her death. Gigia gave him drink. Much drink, and he fell asleep. He should not have fallen asleep. Gigia said it was no different than killing a goat, except the man was heavier. My mana and uncle were there and they buried him. I do not think the men from the ship cared about losing him. They did not hunt for him long. Gigia gave them wine and we helped them search.’

Rhys took a breath. He’d invited this woman into his home, where his mother would meet her. This woman who seemed no more civilised than the rabbits she wished to protect and yet, he wanted to bury his face against her skin and forget.

‘I see.’ He frowned, repressing his notice of her as a woman. He certainly did not need to be noting the insignificant things about her.

‘From your face, I think you do.’ Instantly, her eyes pinched into a tilted scowl, her nose wrinkled. She mocked him. His mouth opened the barest bit. Yes, she’d jested.

‘Miss Cherroll,’ he spoke, beginning his reprimand, holding himself to the starched demeanour his father had used, one strong enough that even a royal would take notice of it. ‘Perhaps my mother could also be of some guidance to you.’

Lashes fluttered. A dash of sadness tinged her words, but the chin did not soften. ‘I am beyond repair.’

Bits of words fluttered through his mind, but none found their way to his lips. He took a moment appraising her, then caught himself, tamping down the sparking embers.

This would not be acceptable. He had survived his sister’s death. He had survived his father’s death. Geoff was gone. The duchess was failing. Rhys’s vision tunnelled around him, leaving only images from memory. He would take his own heart from his chest and wring it out with his two hands before he let it close to another person.

He turned his body from her with more command than he would ever unleash on the ribbons from a horse’s bridle.

‘I did not mean to anger you so...’ Her voice barely rose above the drumming in his ears.

‘I am merely thinking,’ he said.

‘You must stop, then. It’s not agreeing with you.’

‘I think you are the one not agreeing with me.’

‘So it has never happened before?’

‘Not recently.’

‘An oversight?’ Wide eyes.

‘I can hardly believe you and the countess are sisters.’

‘If you think we are brothers, then I do not know what to say.’

‘You are—’ He gave up. If she could use that same spirit to release his mother’s mind from the memories snaring her, it would be worth the risk. He had no other options.

Chapter Three

Bellona took the carriage to the duke’s house, frowning each time the vehicle jostled her. Darting through the woods would have been so much easier, but when the gamekeeper’s eyes had rested on her the last time, a drop of spittle had escaped his lips when he’d smiled at her. The past had flooded back. She’d thought to put the memories behind her, but they’d returned like a wave, currents underneath tugging at her, trying to pull her to death.

Even now, looking out of the window, she could imagine a face peering at her from behind each tree. The eyes reflecting dark, evil thoughts, or no thoughts at all. Knowledge returned of looking into the pupils and seeing nothing human in a face she’d once seen innocently. Nothing behind those eyes which reasoned or thought, but only the same blankness from the face of an animal intent on devouring its prey.

She’d heard the tales of people being fed to lions. Telling the lion to think about the rightness of not clamping its teeth around her neck would do no good. Reminding the beast that she was merely wishing to live out her life wouldn’t change anything. The lion might appear calm, but it would be thinking of only how to get a straighter lunge.

Bellona had known Stephanos before he killed—watched him dance and laugh and work as he’d grown older. Nothing had indicated how one day he would look at her with the harshness of death seeping from him like muck bubbling over the side of a pot left on the fire too long and too hot to pull away with bare hands.

The truth roiled inside her. She’d not escaped to a land where she could let her guard down. Men kept their power within themselves, behind their smiles and their laughter. Like a volcano, the fury could burst forth and take every being in its path.

The day her father had raged at her over a painting she’d accidentally knocked over, she’d known he would have preferred her to be the one broken in the dirt. If he could have traded her to have the painting back on the easel, he would have. He would have rejoiced if she could have been bruised and broken and his painting fresh and new.

Nothing had changed. She’d only lied to herself, hoping she’d be able to forget the past and sleep peacefully again, safe, in this new land.

Even the maid sitting across from her didn’t give her the feeling of security she’d hoped. Moving her foot inside her boot, she felt the dagger sheath, reassuring herself.

She braced her feet as the carriage rolled to a stop. A lock of hair tickled Bellona’s cheek as she opened the door and stepped out. Pushing the strand aside, she looked at the darkened eyes of the Harling House windows. Sunlight reflected off the glass and a bird flitted by, but the house looked no more alive than a crypt.

The entrance door opened before her foot cleared the top step.

The expanse of space between her and the stairway could have swallowed her former home. She could not blame the duchess for not wanting to leave her chamber. This part of the house, with all its shine and perfection, didn’t look as if it allowed anyone to stop for a moment, but to only pass through.

The butler led her to a library which had more personality than she’d seen so far in the house. The pillow on the sofa had been propped perfectly, but one corner had lost its fluff. The scent of coals from the fireplace lingered in the air. The figurines on the mantel had been made at different times by different artists.

One alabaster shape had a translucency she could almost see through. One girl wore clothing Bellona had never seen before. A bird was half in flight. She noted a cracked wing on one angel. The hairline fracture had browned. This hadn’t happened recently and been unnoticed. Someone had wanted to keep the memento even with the imperfection.

Then she studied the spines of the books lining the shelves. Some of the titles she could read, but the English letters her oldest sister, Melina, had taught her years ago were hard to remember. She asked the maid and the woman knew less about the words than Bellona did.

The open-window curtains let much light into the room and the view overlooked where her carriage had stopped. A book lay askew on the desk and another one beside it, plus an uncorked ink bottle. The chair was pulled out and sat slightly sideways. Someone had been sitting there recently, able to see her arrive, and had left a few papers scattered about.

She settled herself to wait, the maid beside her on the sofa. The clock ticked, but other than that nothing sounded. Bellona stood again and noticed the walls. Framed canvases. These were not just paintings, but works of art. When she looked at each piece, she could see something else beyond it—either the thoughts of the person depicted, the way the room had felt that day, or the texture of the object painted.

They were nothing like her father’s paintings. She’d had no idea that such wonderful art existed.

Bellona was seated when the duke stepped into the doorway. She’d not heard him, but the flicker of movement caught her eye.

He stood immobile for a minute, like the figurines, but everything else about him contrasted with the gentle figures on the mantel.

She tightened her fingers on her reticule. When she met his eyes, her senses responded, reminding her of the times she and her sisters had build a fire outside at night on Melos. Sitting, listening to waves and staring at stars. Those nights made her feel alive and secure—the strength of nature reminding her something was bigger than the island.

Lines at the corners of his eyes took some of the sternness from his face, and even though he looked as immovable as the cliffs, she didn’t fear him. Possibly because he seemed focused on his own thoughts more than her presence. When he spoke, his lips turned up, not in a smile, but in acknowledgment of his own words. ‘I regret to say that my mother informs me she will not be able to join you. She is unwell today.’

Bellona stood, moving nearer to the duke. ‘If she is unwell, then I cannot leave without seeing if I might be able to soothe her spirits as I did for my mother. I must see her. Only for a moment.’

The maid rose, but Bellona put out a halting hand and said, ‘Wait here.’

A quick upwards flick of his head caused his hair to fall across his brow. He brushed it back. ‘I may have erred in inviting you. Perhaps another day... Mother is fretful.’

‘When my mother hurt, my sisters and I would take turns holding her hand or talking to her, even if she could not answer for the pain.’

‘She’s not ill in quite that way, but I think her pain is severe none the less.’ Moving into the hallway, he swept his arm out, palm up, indicating the direction. ‘The duchess is rather in a poor temper today. Please do not consider it a reflection of anything but her health.’

‘My mana was very, very ill many days.’ Bellona clasped the strap of her reticule, forcing away her memories. She raised the bag, bringing it to his attention. ‘I brought some garden scents for Her Grace. I will give them to her. They heal the spirit.’

‘If you could only coax a pleasant word from her, I would be grateful.’

* * *

Bellona followed Rhys into the room. He gave a quick bow of his head to his mother and the older woman’s eyes showed puzzlement, then narrowed when she saw he was not alone. Her frail skin, along with the black dress and black cap, and her severe hairstyle, gave her an appearance which could have frightened a child. She pulled the spectacles from her face, slinging them on to the table beside her. She dropped a book to her lap. The pallor in her cheeks left, replaced with tinges of red.

‘Rolleston, I thought I told you I did not want company.’ The words snarled from her lips, lingering in the air. A reprimand simmering with anger.

Rhys gave his mother a respectful nod and looked no more disturbed than if her words had been soft. ‘Miss Cherroll is concerned that you are unwell and believes she has a medicinal which can help.’

The duchess’s fingers curled. ‘I must speak with you alone.’ She didn’t take her eyes from her son. She lifted a hand the merest amount and then her fingers fluttered to the book. ‘You may take whatever frippery she brings and then she can leave. I am not receiving visitors. Even the Prince, should he so enquire.’

Bellona stood firm, forgetting compassion. Her mana had been gentle even when she could not raise her hand from the bed or her head from the pillow. ‘My own mana has passed and I have brought the herbs that made her feel better before she left us. And when their scent is in the air, I feel not so far from her. This will soothe your sleep.’

The duchess’s brows tightened. ‘I sleep well enough. It’s being awake I have trouble with. Such as now. Leave.’

Bellona shrugged, looking more closely at the woman’s skin. She had no health in her face. Her eyes were red and puffed. ‘Then give it to a servant.’

‘I will,’ she said. She examined Bellona and sniffed. ‘Go away and take my son with you. I am not having callers today. Perhaps some time next year. Wait for my letter.’

‘I will leave the herbs with you.’ Bellona reached for her reticule, opened it and pulled the other knife out so she could reach the little pillow she’d made and stuffed with the dried plants.

‘Good heavens,’ the duchess gasped. Rhys tensed, his hand raised and alert.

‘It is only a knife,’ Bellona said, looking at her, flicking the blade both ways to show how small it was. ‘After the pirates attacked our ship, I have always carried one.’

‘Pirates?’ the duchess asked, eyes widening.

‘I am not truly supposed to call them that,’ Bellona said. ‘I did know them, so they did not feel like true pirates, only evil men, and Stephanos was...’ She shook her head. ‘I am not supposed to speak of that either.’

‘You are the countess’s sister?’ The duchess’s voice rose, becoming a brittle scratch. She sat taller, listening.

Bellona nodded. ‘We’re sisters. She’s more English than I am. Our father was not on the island so much when I was older. I hardly knew him. My second sister, Thessa, wanted to go to London. I did not. I like it, but I had expected to always stay in my homeland. But my mana died. Melina—the countess—had left and started a new life with her husband here and with Thessa determined that we should leave Melos I had no choice. The evil fidi would have— I could not stay on my island without either being killed or killing someone else because I was not going to wed.’

‘You are the countess’s sister?’

Bellona smiled at the duchess’s incredulous repetition.

‘Does she carry a knife?’

Bellona shook her head. ‘No. I do not understand Melina, but she has the children and she did not have the same ship journey I had. She did not see the things I saw. I really am not supposed to speak of them.’ Bellona bunched the things in her hand together enough so she could pull the pillow out.

Rhys reached out. ‘I’ll hold that,’ he said of the knife.

She slipped the blade back inside and pulled the strings of the closure tight. ‘I’m fine.’ She gripped the ties.

Walking to the duchess, she held out the bag of herbs. Rhys followed her step for step and her stare directed at him did not budge him.

The duchess took the pillow, keeping her eyes on Bellona. She pulled the packet to her nose. ‘Different,’ she remarked.

‘At night, you are supposed to put them near your head and then your dreams are to be more pleasant. I have one. It doesn’t work for me. But my mana promised it worked for her.’

‘I do not think it will work for me either.’ The duchess sighed, letting her hand rest in her lap.

‘The dreams. The dreams are the worst part,’ Bellona said.

The duchess looked at the cloth in her hand, squeezing it, crushing the centre, causing the herbs to rustle. ‘I know.’

‘Some nights,’ Bellona admitted, ‘I dream my mother is alive and for those moments she is. But I dream she is the one being attacked by the men and I cannot save her. Those dreams are the worst. And they only grow and grow. I cannot breathe when I wake.’

The duchess nodded, eyes downcast. ‘Do not talk of this to me.’

‘No one wishes to hear it,’ Bellona said sadly. ‘I cannot talk about it with anyone. And not to be able to talk with Mana makes it so bad. I did not think I would live when she died, but my sister Thessa started slapping me when I cried. That helped.’

The duchess stared at Bellona. ‘How unkind.’

‘Oh, no. No,’ Bellona insisted. ‘I would get angry and I would chase her and chase her and want to hurt her. I will always love her for that.’

The duchess looked thoughtful. ‘Child. Perhaps a pat or hug would have been better?’

Bellona squinted. ‘That would have done no good. I would have cried more.’

A chuckle burst from Rhys’s lips. A light shone in his brown eyes that she’d never seen before in any man’s gaze and she could feel the sunshine from it. Her cheeks warmed.

‘You might as well sit,’ the duchess said. ‘You’ll make my neck hurt looking up at you.’

While she stood there, unable for the moment to think of anything but the duke’s sable eyes, he slipped the reticule from her hand.

‘Find me in the library when you leave so I may return this to you,’ he said. ‘I have some work to finish and I will have tea sent your way.’

He strode out through the doorway.

‘Do not dare slap me,’ the duchess warned.

‘If you need it, I will,’ Bellona replied.

‘Do not try it. I will not chase you,’ the duchess added, studying her rings, before indicating Bellona sit beside her. ‘I would send servants.’

Bellona shook her head. ‘You’ve lost enough family members for many slaps...’

The duchess nodded. ‘It was not supposed to be like that. My husband, I accepted he might die. He was much older than I. But my babies. My children. You don’t know what it is like.’

‘I know something of what it is like.’

‘No. You don’t.’

‘Yes, I do.’

‘You can’t.’

‘Then tell me.’

The duchess tossed the packet aside. ‘My daughter had golden hair. I’d never seen a child so blessed...’ She continued speaking of her past, taking tea when the maid brought it, and hardly pausing in her memories.

Finally, she looked at Bellona. ‘You really must be on your way now. You’ve stayed much longer than a proper first visit lasts. One just doesn’t act as you do.’

‘I know. I do as I wish.’

‘I can tell you have not had a mother about. You need someone to teach you how to act.’

‘No. I do not. This is how I wish to be.’

‘That is your first error.’ She shut her eyes. ‘Now go.’

Bellona rose. ‘Thank you for telling me of your daughter.’

The duchess opened her eyes again and waved towards the door. ‘I may send a note later requesting you to tea.’

Bellona left, hearing two rapid sniffs behind her. She shut the door, listening for the click. A dark hallway loomed, but she remembered her way to the library.

A few moments later, she found Rhys, sitting at his desk, leaning over papers. Her reticule lay at the side of his work.

‘Where’s the maid?’ Bellona asked, walking into the room.

He twirled his pen between his fingertips as he stood. ‘Below stairs speaking with the other servants. I think she is a cousin or sister or some relation to many of the women here.’

Bellona walked to the fabric bag, lifting it and feeling the weapon still inside.

He frowned and shook his head.

She ignored him and moved to the door.

‘Wait,’ he said. ‘I’ll send for someone to collect your maid.’

‘I will find her. When I step below stairs and look around, servants will appear and the maid will rush to me. If it takes many moments, the housekeeper or butler are at my elbow, asking what I need. It works faster than the bell pull.’

‘Perhaps you should leave them to do their jobs.’

‘Yes. I should,’ she agreed.

He smiled—the one that didn’t reach his lips, but made his eyes change in such a way that they became like dark jewels she couldn’t take her own gaze from.

‘Would you wait here whilst I see how my mother fares?’ he said. The words were a question, but he was halfway from the room before she could answer.

‘No. I’ll be on my way.’

He took two more steps, stopped, and spun around. ‘No?’ He stood in the doorway, almost taking up the whole of the space.

‘You will ask her what I said. How we got on and make sure she is well,’ Bellona said. ‘I know the answers to that. She mentioned having tea with me again, but she will change her mind.’

‘With me, she cannot speak for crying and it has been a year,’ he muttered. ‘A year... I think the honeysuckle was in bloom when they were taking my brother from the house the last time.’

‘It is not quite a year,’ Bellona told him, shaking her head. ‘Your mother knows the dates. All of them.’

His eyes snapped to her and he pushed his hair from his temple. ‘Of my father’s and sister’s deaths, too?’

‘Yes. And her own parents.’

‘You must stay,’ he said. ‘You cannot keep the knife in case someone accidentally gets hurt. But you must stay. I have tried two companions for my mother and she shouted one from the room and refused to speak with the other.’

‘No.’

‘Miss Cherroll, I fear you do not understand how trapped my mother is in her thoughts and memories. You must stay and see if you can lift her spirits. Otherwise, I fear she will not live much longer.’

She moved, putting the desk between them. ‘I cannot.’ She had grown up with the myths of her ancestors and tales of men stronger than storms and compelling forces. But she’d experienced nothing beyond the world of her birth until the duke stood before her. He changed the way her heart beat, the way she breathed and even the way her skin felt.

He tensed his shoulders, drew in a breath and his arms relaxed. She looked into his eyes, but lowered her gaze back to his cravat. She could not stay in this house. Not and be near the duke. He held the danger of the pirates, but in a different way. She’d seen her mother’s weakness. Not the one taking her body near death, but the one that had locked her into a man’s power. The power you could not escape from because it stole a person from the inside.

He strode to the side of the desk, nearer her. ‘I will pay you whatever you ask. You can go to the servants’ quarters ten times a day if you wish. You can have your run of the grounds. The entire estate will be open to you.’

She held the bag close to her body. ‘I will not stay in your house.’

He held his hands out, palms up. ‘It’s— There’s none better.’

‘It’s not that.’

He continued. ‘You can have whatever rooms you wish if you stay as my mother’s companion. Take several chambers if you’d like. You can have two maids at your elbows all day. And two at theirs.’

‘Be quiet and listen.’

His chin tilted down. His brows rose. ‘Yes, Miss Cherroll?’

‘I will not stay here.’

He waited, his gaze locked on to hers.

‘My sister needs me for the children,’ she said.

‘I understand completely,’ he said, voice agreeing, and stepped to the door. ‘You can take my carriage to visit them as often as you wish.’ One stride and he would be out of her vision. ‘It is not a problem at all. Send your maid in Warrington’s carriage for your things. The housekeeper will be with you shortly to help you select a room.’

He was gone by the time she opened her mouth.

She stared at the fireplace. Warrington’s estate was not far. She could return to take tea with the duchess every day if she wished; she didn’t need to live in this house. Bellona did not care what this man said even if he was a duke. She did not follow Warrington’s orders and he was an earl and married to her sister.

Slipping the reticule ties over her wrist, she walked to the servants’ stairs.

The maid from Warrington’s estate was whispering to another woman, but immediately stopped when she saw Bellona and bustled to her, following as they left.

‘My cousin did not believe you’d stay such a long time,’ the maid murmured. ‘My cousin says the duchess will follow her family to the grave before the year’s gone. The woman won’t leave her chair except to weep in the garden. She gets in such a state that her humours are all gobber’d up. The duke is the only one can settle her at all and even he can’t be around all the time.’

Bellona remembered holding her own mother’s hand near the end. How cool her fingers were. So thin, and with no strength in them at all. The duchess’s hands had felt the same.

‘I will visit her again soon. Perhaps tomorrow. I am not certain. I am hopeful the herbs will help her.’ She moved to exit the house.

‘My cousin said the duke is right soured himself. Servants step wide of him since he became titled. Said he’s wearing that coronet so tight it’s mashed out everything not duke.’

‘A man should take his duties to his heart.’

Her maid puffed a whistle from her lips. ‘If he’s got any heart left. My cousin says he don’t care for nothing except for his duties.’

‘He cares for his mana.’

‘Simply another duty.’

They walked to the carriage. Bellona could feel eyes on her. She forced herself not to search the windows behind her to see if the duke watched her departure. But she knew he did.

She adjusted her bonnet and held the reticule so tightly she could not feel the cloth, but only the handle beneath. ‘Tomorrow, when I return, I wish you to stay at my side.’

* * *

‘What did you do to the duke?’

Bellona’s oldest sister, Melina, stood in the very centre of the room. She tapped her slipper against the rug.

‘I was nice to his mana,’ Bellona said, adjusting the quiver at her waist. ‘I am going to practise.’

‘The duke is here, demanding to see Warrington.’

‘Truly?’ Bellona asked.

‘But War is in London. So the butler said Rolleston demands to see you.’

‘I am not at home.’

‘I told the butler to tell him we will speak with him. The duke is our neighbour and War’s parents and his parents were very close.’ She frowned. ‘Bellona. You just cannot tell a duke to go away, particularly this one.’

‘Warrington does not like him.’

‘They are quite fond of each other, in the way men are.’

‘I am quite fond of the duke in much the same way,’ Bellona said darkly.

‘You can’t be. You have to pretend to like him. We are ladies—as I must remind you as often as I remind Willa.’

‘He wishes for me to move to his estate.’

Her sister’s foot stilled. ‘You are—imagining that, surely?’

Bellona shook her head. ‘He thinks I can help the duchess. His Grace told me I would be her companion. I will visit her, but that is as much as I can do.’

Melina stepped near Bellona. ‘She will see no one. It is said she is dying. How ill do you think she is?’

‘I do not know. Bones covered in black clothes, with her face peering out. I would not think she would make it through a hard winter or a heavy wash day.’ She forced her next words. ‘Almost like Mana at the end.’

Melina’s hand fluttered to her cheek. ‘You must move in with her. It is the thing Mana would want.’

‘I do not even want to visit her every day,’ Bellona said, shuddering. ‘She doesn’t have the gentle ways of Mana.’

‘You must. Besides, to live at the duke’s house...’ Melina put a hand at her waist. ‘He might have friends visit. And you might meet them. You could learn a lot. The duchess is a true duchess. She could help you. You are not as wild as you pretend. Her Grace could teach you so much if you just watch and learn.’

‘I already know how to say I am not at home.’

‘Sister. A woman. Her husband gone. Her daughter and her oldest son gone, too, and you are asked to help her and you will not. Mana would weep.’

‘I will help her. I just do not want to live in the duke’s house.’ Bellona turned to leave the room, but her sister’s quiet voice stopped her.

‘You do not like living here, either,’ Melina said.

She couldn’t tell Melina what she felt about the duke. Stone and towering and dark eyes. She remembered standing at the edge of the cliffs and looking at the ground far beneath, and knowing if she swooned she would fall—feeling brave and scared at the same time. The duke made her want to step closer and yet, if she did, the ground might crumble away. He reminded her so much of the stones she’d seen jutting from the sea and the cliffs.

‘I wish to be here with the children. And you.’ Bellona pleaded with her sister. ‘I do not want to leave the little ones.’

‘You’ll never have your own babies if you do not learn how to mix with society. A footman will not do for you and you know that. The duchess could introduce you to someone suitable.’

‘I went to the soirée. The men smelled like flowers.’

‘Pretend you are a bee. You can sting them after you’re wed. Not before.’

‘I will not pretend to be anything other than what I am.’

‘You cannot go back to the way we lived. You must go forward and the duchess could help. She could ease your way into society in a way that I cannot. They hardly accept me.’

Bellona hit her own chest with her fingertip. ‘That is where we are different. I do not want to be in society. Bonnets pull my hair. Slippers pinch and corsets squeeze. The flowery world has nothing for me.’

‘A husband helps if you want children of your own—and it is best for the child to be born within a true marriage, one with love. You know that as well as I.’

‘Even children are not worth a husband. I have a niece and two nephews. They are my babies.’

‘You are hiding. From everything. From the past and the future. The duchess needs you. You know how long the nights can be after a death and we had each other. We had the three of us, you, me and Thessa. You are just like our pateras, our father.’ Melina crossed her arms.

‘That is an evil thing to say. I am surprised your tongue does not choke you for forcing those words past it.’

‘You are like Father. Of the three of us, you are the most like him,’ her sister continued, pacing the room. ‘Even Mana said so, just not where you could hear her.’

Bellona raised her voice. ‘I am not like him.’

‘When we angered him, he would go paint.’ Melina swaggered with her shoulders as she walked. ‘When he did not want to do something, he would paint.’ She stopped and mused. ‘Did you ever notice how paint brushes are shaped almost like little arrows?’

‘You’re wrong to speak so. I practise archery. I do not live for it.’

‘Even the way you stick out your chin. Just like him.’ She jutted out her jaw in an exaggerated pose.

‘You always say that when you have no better words to fight with.’

Melina returned her stance to normal. ‘I cannot believe my own sister has no kindness in her heart for a woman with no daughters or sisters.’

Bellona raised her chin. ‘I will tell the duke I will stay a short time with his mother. It will be better than listening to you. You are the one like Father, insisting on having your way.’

‘Only when I am right.’ She examined Bellona. ‘Please arrange your hair before you see the duke.’

‘Of course.’ Bellona patted both sides of her head, achieving nothing.

‘Much better.’ Melina paused. ‘I expected you to pull a strand loose.’

‘I thought of it.’ Bellona sighed. But the duke probably wouldn’t appreciate it.

Melina reached to Bellona and pushed her youngest sister’s hair up at the sides, moving the pins around. ‘There. Now you look as well as me.’

Bellona walked past her. ‘Now you see why I do not show my face in society.’

Melina’s chuckle followed Bellona from the room out into the hallway.

When Bellona reached the sitting room, the duke’s gaze swept over her. The rock stood, unyielding.

Even with a scowl on his face, she still wanted to look at him. The thought irritated her.

‘I will return to your house,’ she said curtly.

The flicker behind his eyes—the intake of breath. She would have imagined he’d just been hit, except his face softened much the same as Warrington’s did when her sister walked into the room. The duke inclined his head in acknowledgment. ‘It will mean a lot. To the duchess.’

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