The Texan Duke Page 16

  “Urisk? A ghost?”

  She shook her head. “A solitary being, a result of the union between a mortal and a fairy.”

  “And you believe this?” he asked, unable to keep the incredulity out of his voice.

  She shook her head again, her look chiding. “It’s not important what I believe, Connor. It’s lore. It’s history. People who have lived here for millennia believe it. This land is built on the bones and the souls of those who’ve gone before.”

  “We have our own past in Texas, Elsbeth. We’re also a damn sight warmer.”

  He wasn’t going to ridicule Scottish beliefs. Whatever they chose to accept was fine with him; just don’t make him think the same thing.

  She smiled at him and he couldn’t help himself. Slowly he leaned in, giving her time to say something, to issue a caution of her own.

  She didn’t. Instead, she was motionless, her beautiful eyes wide as he lowered his mouth to hers, feeling her breath warm against his lips.

  He’d anticipated a kiss; he hadn’t expected the surge of feeling. He wanted to love her, gently, sweetly—at the same time he wanted to protect her. He wanted to push her away and lecture her on the dangers of giving herself so easily to him—at the same moment he drew her closer, wrapping his arms around her.

  He forgot that they were standing in the middle of a Scottish ruin, that the fierce cold was seeping into his bones.

  Instead, there was only Elsbeth, only the feel of her in his arms, the soft sound she made as the kiss deepened.

  Another sound brought him back to the present. Maybe the memories of Chickamauga had somehow alerted him. In those years he’d always been vigilant.

  It was a small noise, nothing more. It could have been a falling rock, an icicle dropping from a branch to the ground.

  Or something else.

  He broke off the kiss, looked up, alert to something else, a click and rasp, followed by another click that abruptly ricocheted him into the past.

  Pushing Elsbeth to the ground, he followed her, covering her with his body. She gasped in surprise or pain or perhaps even outrage. The sound of the shot silenced her.

  “Someone’s shooting at us,” he said, stating the obvious. “And it’s not your Urisk.”

  He heard a second shot, an echo accompanying it. A rifle, then, the sound too powerful to be a pistol.

  Where was the shooter standing? He rose up, enough to peer through the arched window. Another shot rang out and the question faded beneath instantaneous pain.

  Damn it, he’d been hit.

  He stayed on his knees, dragging Elsbeth by the hand as he made it to the shelter of the tallest wall. From his calculations, the shooter was on the west side of Castle McCraight, probably hiding near the tree edge.

  The pain in his shoulder angered him. He’d been shot before and didn’t have any desire to repeat the experience, especially not in the same spot.

  “Why is someone shooting at us?”

  “It’s your country, Elsbeth. Damned if I know.”

  He hadn’t done anything to anyone. He wasn’t at war.

  He held his good arm around Elsbeth, waiting. A few minutes passed. Removing his hat, he raised it a little. Nothing. He tossed it into the air, but nothing happened. Either the shooter wasn’t taking the bait or he’d left.

  After a few more minutes passed, Connor pointed to the trees on the east side of the ruins, opposite from where he thought the shooter was.

  “It’s not great cover,” he said, “but it beats the hell out of sitting here waiting to be shot.”

  He probably should have apologized for swearing again, but he had cause right at the moment. She didn’t lecture him on etiquette, either, for which he was grateful.

  Keeping hold of her hand, he got to his feet and pulled Elsbeth with him, both of them ducking beneath the ruined walls to the edge of the woods.

  He would bet that no human had been in this area of the forest in years. The undergrowth was so thick his boots sank to his ankles. He thought he saw the sharp nose of a fox, but it disappeared so quickly he could have been mistaken.

  “You’ve lost your hat,” she said, her voice sounding breathless and thin.

  “I don’t do everything with my hat on. My boots, now that’s something entirely different.”

  She didn’t smile. Instead, her eyes widened as she stretched out her hand and touched his right shoulder.

  “You’ve been shot!”

  He pulled her behind a massive oak, bent his head back, and looked up through the archway of branches to a darkening sky.

  At least it wasn’t snowing.

  The sound of tearing fabric startled him. He glanced over to find that she had lifted the corner of her cloak and was ripping the hem of her riding garment.

  “What are you doing?”

  “You’re bleeding,” she said. “I need something to staunch the wound.”

  Her voice was remarkably calm. He’d known nurses in the Civil War who hadn’t sounded as serene as Elsbeth did at the moment.

  “I do wish I’d brought some extra handkerchiefs,” she said. “But I didn’t know you were going to go and get shot.”

  “It’s not exactly my fault,” he said, grateful for the amusement he felt. It took his mind off the pain.

  He glanced to his right and bit back an oath.

  “I’ve only had this coat six months. The hole can’t be patched and I doubt the blood can be cleaned. And, damn it, I’ve already been shot there before.”

  She hesitated in the act of pulling his coat off his shoulders and stared at him as if she’d never before seen a wounded man. Maybe she hadn’t. Maybe he ought to apologize for that, too.

  “He could very easily have killed you,” she said. “And you’re worried about your coat.”

  He started to nod, thought better of the gesture, and said, “I think that was the objective.”

  She was frowning at him as she pulled back his jacket and shirt.

  “Why?”

  He had a couple of reasons ready, but he didn’t think he had to tell her. Elsbeth had struck him as perceptive from the beginning.

  Either someone didn’t like the fact that he was the Duke of Lothian, and in that he couldn’t blame them. Or someone was angry about his decision to sell Bealadair. Either way, he had a target on his back.

  “It’s not in the same place,” she said. “Nearly so, but your other scar is a few inches to the right.”

  He closed his eyes, but only for a moment as she pressed against the wound. This one hurt more and he couldn’t help but wonder if the bullet had hit his collarbone.

  “We’re near Ainell Village,” she said. “There’s a physician there. I could go get him.”

  He opened his eyes. “I have no intention of remaining here while you’re off getting reinforcements. No, Elsbeth.”

  Just no. He was more than willing to tie her to him if necessary. Maybe his look gave his feelings away, because she frowned at him again.

  This was the woman he’d lost his mind kissing just a moment ago. Now she looked like she wanted to smack him.

  Chapter 20

  Could a hunter have shot Connor? Granted, this was McCraight land, but poachers had been known to come onto their acreage. Yet they hadn’t had a problem for years, ever since Gavin had made sure that all the crofters had a subsistent income. They would never starve and consequently didn’t need to hunt illegally.

  But there were plenty of people in Ainell Village who might have been poaching. Anyone could’ve taken a shot at Connor, especially since his leather coat made him look like a large elk.

  When Elsbeth said as much to him, he gave her a look like she was slightly demented. Or weak in the mind.

  “It’s possible,” she said, annoyed.

  “Not very probable,” he countered. “I think whoever took a shot at me knew exactly what he was doing.”

  She sat back on her heels and considered that someone had tried to kill him.

  Wha
t a ghastly thought. No, worse than that.

  Her stomach churned.

  If he hadn’t pushed her to the ground, he would probably have been struck directly in the chest. She would be sobbing over his lifeless body, instead of trying to tend to his wound.

  “I won’t leave you,” she said. “I’ll protect you.”

  He closed his eyes and laid his head back against the tree trunk. “God help me.”

  “What, exactly, does that mean?”

  “That if I am so infirm and unable to protect myself to the degree that a delicate woman has to do so, I must be more badly wounded than I thought.”

  “I am not delicate,” she said.

  He opened his eyes at that comment and studied her.

  “Even in that voluminous red cloak of yours, Elsbeth Carew, you’re very delicate. You walk with a certain grace, I think. I’ve yet to figure out what it is. Perhaps I should just ask you to parade in front of me for an hour or two until I can work it out.”

  “You’re delirious,” she said. “We need to get you help and quickly.”

  “I’m not,” he said. “Although I’ll admit it smarts a bit. I think our shooter has left.”

  She was afraid he was losing too much blood. What was she going to do? She looked at him, still large and impressive sitting at the base of the tree, and then at Samson.

  He was right, though; no shots had come for quite a few minutes. Did that mean that the shooter had given up and gone away? Or was it simply that he was waiting them out, hoping they would emerge from the woods?

  “Here,” she said, raising his left hand and placing it against the wound. “Hold that tight until I come back. Don’t let it go.”

  “I’m cold,” he said. “You strip me practically naked and it’s damn cold out here.”

  She frowned at him again. “You’re very argumentative when you’re not feeling well. Did you know that?”

  “I will apologize later,” he said, reaching for his coat and pulling it over his wound. “Where do you think you’re going?” he asked as she began to cautiously move away.

  She glanced back at him and made a motion with her hand. He didn’t seem to understand that it meant be silent because he said, “Elsbeth, where the hell are you going?”

  Now was not the time to give the Duke of Lothian lessons in etiquette. A severe frown would have to do.

  At the edge of the forest she stood, scanning the castle, the cliff area, and the far trees. She couldn’t see anything.

  Slowly, she emerged from the trees, heading to where Samson stood beside her mare.

  Nothing happened.

  Nobody shot at her when she grabbed Samson’s reins and made her way to a fallen stone near the edge of the forest. She was going to have Connor stand on it so he could mount the horse.

  Was the duchess going to get a tearful visit from one of the villagers tomorrow along with a confession? The more time elapsed, the more she wanted to think that it had been a horrible mistake. Of course no one had deliberately tried to harm Connor.

  Except that she thought that might be a naive assumption. After all, he was going to change everything by selling Bealadair.

  She made her way back to Connor’s side. His hand had slipped away from the wound and it was bleeding profusely.

  “You have to stand up,” she said. “I can help you get to your horse, but I can’t make you stand up. Please, Connor.”

  His eyes fluttered open.

  “Kiss me again, Elsbeth.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “That kiss was not long enough.”

  “You’re feverish,” she said.

  “I’m not.”

  “You’ve been wounded.”

  “I have at that. That’s why you should kiss me again.”

  “Your Grace.”

  “Even that doesn’t sound as terrible uttered by those luscious lips of yours.”

  “Connor!”

  “Kiss me, Elsbeth.”

  “If you’ll stand up,” she said in desperation, “I’ll kiss you.”

  “You promise?”

  She nodded.

  “Do you ever break your promises?”

  “Never,” she said.

  “Never?”

  “Why do you ask me questions if you don’t want to hear my answers? Or don’t believe them?”

  “You’re very fiery. Are all Scottish women fiery? You remind me of a Texan.”

  He was not moving to stand and if he didn’t do so quickly, she was very much afraid he would be too weak.

  She moved to his left side, grabbed his arm, and began to pull.

  “You have to stand, Connor. If you want that kiss, you have to make it to your horse.”

  Blood was seeping over his shirt down to the waistband of his trousers. He wasn’t cooperating, and her fear gave her a strength she didn’t know she had. She nearly pulled him upright all by herself.

  He leaned on her heavily as they made their way to Samson.

  “My hat,” he said.

  She almost said a swear word, something she’d heard from the stableboys. Or the 14th Duke of Lothian.

  “Once I get you on Samson,” she said, “I’ll go back and get your hat.”

  If she couldn’t get it now, she’d come back for it. Him and his hat. She led him to where Samson patiently stood.

  To her surprise, he leaned down and kissed her before she knew what he was going to do. At least that’s what she told herself. Nor did she push him away because he’d been wounded. She didn’t want to make his injury worse.

  The man was dangerous. Even hurt, he kissed like a devil.

  She lost herself for a few moments, and when she finally stepped back, he smiled down at her.

  A few minutes later they reached the stone at Samson’s side. Now, all she needed to do was to get him to climb on it and he could drape himself over the saddle. The stubborn man, the foolish man, the idiotic man, refused to do as she asked.

  “Please, Connor,” she said. “Just step up there and we can get you on Samson.”

  To her amazement, he gripped the reins, put his left foot in the stirrup and mounted the horse with accustomed ease. Only the look on his face betrayed the effort it had cost him. He was suddenly stark white, his lips thinned.

  “Let’s go.”

  She told herself she was an idiot as she went to retrieve his hat.

  “Good afternoon, Duchess.”

  Rhona halted in the corridor and slowly turned to find herself being addressed by Mr. Kirby.

  He walked toward her, holding his oddly shaped hat in his hands.

  “A lovely afternoon, isn’t it?”

  “You’ll have to forgive me, Mr. Kirby, but I don’t have any idea whether it’s a lovely afternoon or not. I’ve been involved with a great many tasks.”

  “Then would you care to take a walk with me?” he asked, having the effrontery to offer her his arm.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Take a stroll with me, Duchess. You can show me the sights around Bealadair.”

  She wasn’t the type to show someone “the sights” as he called it. Only one thing kept her from informing him of that fact in as terse a manner as possible, and it so surprised her that she could only stare at the man.

  His eyes were lit with admiration.

  Was he one of those Americans who were fascinated with titles? Was he simply impressed that she was a duchess?

  “I’m afraid I don’t have time,” she said.

  “What is so pressing that you can’t take a moment out of your day?”

  He was presuming a great deal, but then he was an American. They had a way of speaking bluntly.

  “Mr. Kirby, I have the duties of my station.”

  “Wouldn’t one of those be showing a guest around your house?”

  He stretched out his hand, leaving it in the air between them. She didn’t know what else to do so she placed hers atop it. He bent and kissed the air above her knuckles, just like the Fr
ench and German dignitaries she’d met. When the kiss was done, he squeezed her fingers as if he were loath to relinquish her hand.

  “Mr. Kirby,” she began, only to be startled by his smile. He had a way of looking at you as if there was not another human being in existence.

  “Even if that guest is in awe of your beauty?”

  He really did have a way of flummoxing her with his questions. She didn’t think anyone had ever said anything like that to her in years. She really should dismiss the man immediately.

  Yet there was the possibility that Mr. Kirby might have some influence with His Grace. Perhaps the man might even be able to convince him to change his mind and remain in Scotland. Or allow the family to continue to reside at Bealadair. Surely he didn’t need to sell the house and the land.

  She fingered the cameo at her neck. It was the only spot of color she wore. Black was expected. Black was proper. Black, however, washed out her complexion and made her hazel eyes seem more brown than green.

  Yet in his glance she wasn’t a widow. Nor was she the mother of two grown daughters and the stepmother of another. She felt—impossibly—young again, her wardrobe designed to augment her beauty.

  “Do you have a rose garden?”

  “A rose garden? Yes, we do. Of course, it’s dormant now since it’s winter.”

  “Would you show it to me?” he asked.

  “I do not know if you’ve noticed, Mr. Kirby, but there is at least two feet of snow on the ground. The roses have been bagged and mulched. There is nothing to see. Besides, it’s almost dark.”

  “Then perhaps you can show me some of your glorious home.”

  He really was the most persistent man. But there was something about the look in his eyes, and the undiluted admiration that she hadn’t seen for a very long time. Her youth, in fact, when she had, as the daughter of the Earl of Debish, been courted and feted for her beauty and vibrancy.

  She had married Gavin, believing his words and his implicit promise. Believing, too, in a future that had never materialized. He had not continued to love her. Instead, he had put his books and his histories above her and his children.

  “What would you like to see, Mr. Kirby?” she asked, surprising herself with the question. She told herself that it would be foolish to overlook an opportunity to influence His Grace.