My Wild Duke Read online

  Gemma hurried off without comment.

  “Truly, I am fine,” she bit out. But then another wave of pain hit her. It rolled and squeezed through her back and abdomen.

  The Duchess of Blackburn took her hand, all propriety being eschewed. “I think you should lie down. Shall I call for your husband?”

  “No. Please don’t,” she protested, even as her face twisted with discomfort. “I don’t wish him to worry. No doubt, I am simply over tired. The care it has taken to return home and—”

  Another terrible pain wrenched through her and, this time, her knees buckled.

  The Duchess of Blackburn caught her and she looked up into the kindest eyes she had ever seen. Eyes that knew.

  “How many months?” the duchess whispered.

  Her throat closed, knowing immediately what was happening yet refusing to believe. It wasn’t true. It couldn’t be happening. “Three,” she whispered hoarsely.

  The Duchess of Blackburn nodded and assured her. “Let us not panic yet.”

  Lady Gemma returned with the wine, but the Duchess of Blackburn shook her head. “Send for a maid. Tell her to bring hot bricks and strong tea to Lady Beatrix’s room.”

  Lady Gemma’s face paled but she went at once.

  “Now, we’re going to your chamber,” the duchess said gently as if nothing were amiss.

  There was no point in making argument. In fact, she had a terrifying feeling that all reasonable thought was about to abandon her.

  Though the duchess was a veritable stranger, Beatrix felt immediate gratitude and less fear as she allowed the slightly older woman to guide her from the room.

  She did not hear the hush that had fallen over the other women, or realize that they were not rushing to her side, lest they overwhelm and upset her.

  But the evening quieted, for every woman in the room knew the dangers of such pains in a young wife. And every woman in the room sent up an immediate prayer.

  *

  Adam sat in the darkness while Beatrix lay sleeping in the bed. His beautiful, strong wife seemed so small in the vast array of bedclothes.

  He held his head in his hands. Tears slipped down his cheeks. He could not recall the last time he’d cried. Perhaps as a child? Dear God, he thought he was too inured to succumb to tears.

  But as the doctor had murmured the hellish news, and a maid had bustled out the crimson sheets, the reality of the situation had hit him like the blow of a cutlass. It had sliced him straight down to the bone. To his heart.

  She could have died. He wiped a hand over his face and drew in a shuddering breath.

  That thought kept echoing through his head as he lifted his gaze to her pale face.

  Even in sleep, she looked distressed.

  How would he ever help her through this agony?

  The happiness which had so buoyed them this evening was a distant memory now.

  How could life have done this to her?

  Had she not suffered enough?

  Even as he thought this, he knew life could do much worse. Be far crueler. She could be dead. He could be alone. Adrift without her.

  But that did not give him ease. God, he longed to stand up, to tear apart the room with his bare hands. He had to do something. But there was nothing that he could do but wait for her to awaken and to tell her what she almost undoubtedly knew.

  Beatrix was no fool.

  The horror of those last moments, of her pain, and her own protestations in guttural tones had nearly undone him. Finally, the doctor had administered laudanum to calm her.

  A ragged sob escaped him then and he bit down on his fist, desperate to compose himself.

  He had never imagined when he’d first seen her, proud and defiant in the park, that it would come to this.

  What the hell had he done?

  The door snicked open and the Duchess of Blackburn peered in. “You must sleep, Captain.”

  A hollow laugh choked in his throat. Sleep? He’d never sleep again. He already had enough ghosts dancing in his head and now there would be the ghost of her pain and the promise of a small child. A child he would have held and loved and. . .

  For some inexplicable reason, his sister came to mind in that moment. Of her small body dancing through the flowery fields near Boston, her long hair flowing in the breeze.

  Digging his fingers into his palms, he turned away. “I won’t leave her.”

  “She won’t awaken for hours,” the duchess said kindly. “The drug ensures that.”

  “I don’t give a damn, Your Grace,” he bit out, the hardness of his voice barely more than a whisper. “Now, I thank you but please leave me.”

  She nodded. “I understand. But you will need to be strong for Beatrix. You must rest.”

  “If I close my eyes, Duchess, I will not rest.” He looked away. “I will see fresh hell.”

  “I am so very sorry.”

  “No.” He drew in a long breath, forcing himself to look at the woman who had been by his wife’s side through the whole, terrible event. “You helped her. God knows what would have happened if you hadn’t acted so quickly.”

  “You give me undue credit.”

  “Do I?”

  She nodded. “Promise me, you will be kind to yourself.”

  “Kind,” he mocked. “This is my fault.”

  She winced. “Captain—”

  “I allowed her to pursue this with undue haste. Perhaps she was not ready. She should not have—”

  “This is not your fault.” She was silent for several moments before saying with marked resignation, “It is a part of nature.”

  “Then nature can be damned,” he countered. “I am tired of nature ruining so many lives.”

  “I do understand.”

  “How the devil could you?”

  She hesitated, her face transforming, as if lost in another night, another sadness. . . Another child. “Believe me, Captain. I do. How do you think I knew what was happening to your wife?”

  He swallowed. “Forgive me. I am angry and—”

  “Apologies are not needed.” She glanced to the bed. “But I am here when she awakes. You must hold her hand and be patient.”

  He nodded. He would protect her. No matter what, because if one thing had made itself bloody clear this night was that he loved Beatrix and he would not take the chance of losing her. Not again. Not ever again.

  Chapter 21

  As Beatrix woke, tears pooled in her eyes. She had failed. Her hopes had not come to pass and with that. . . She squeezed her eyes shut and rolled onto her side, balling the blankets in her embrace.

  There was some pain and her mouth felt dry.

  The events of the previous evening were muddy. She recalled the doctor’s tense face. The fear in Adam’s eyes. And she could still recall the harrowing moment when she knew it was over. She had almost begged for death in that moment. The dread that had washed over her had been as heavy as a tomb.

  She buried her face in her pillow, a sob wracking her body.

  “Sweetheart?”

  Barely hearing that voice, she did not turn to it. For she had failed him, too. The only purpose of their marriage had been a child. Now, that was gone.

  The bed shifted and she felt his great arms enfold her, pulling her against his strength and warmth.

  “I cannot bear it,” she cried against his chest. For one brief moment, she thought to turn from him. To keep her pain to herself, but she could not. Adam understood her and she was not going to wall herself off from him.

  He said nothing but stroked her hair softly, his arms grasping at her as if he were afraid she still might slip away from him.

  “How could I have let this happen?” she asked, her body shaking.

  “You did nothing, my love,” he whispered, his own voice hoarse. “The doctor said that these things do happen especially within the first twelve weeks.”

  “I am tired of the vagaries of fate,” she cried. “Can we mortals not win? Must the gods always laugh?” She c
losed her eyes. For some impossible reason, her arms ached, empty. The child had barely begun yet she ached to hold it, to see its blinking eyes, and small mouth. To feel its perfect warmth against her skin. To see it grow and become the person it was meant to be. She never would. It was gone. Like all of her family. Her child was gone.

  The hell of it threatened to swallow her up.

  Adam said nothing to her fanciful lamentation. He only held her. Held her as if he could keep her here with him rather than rattling off into some unseen hell if he held her closely enough.

  But even as she felt his arms about her, trying to take his help, she did not feel comfort. She felt alone. So very alone. Empty. She felt empty. And she knew, with every fiber of her being, she would never feel whole again.

  “We will ride this storm,” he said suddenly. “And I will never let anything happen to you.”

  She tilted her head back and, for what felt like the first time, she looked into his agonized face. “You know as well as I, that we can only rail against what might come, not prevent it.”

  He gazed down at her, his eyes ablaze. “It will not stop me from trying.”

  “Oh, Adam.” Hot tears stung her cheeks. “I am sorry.”

  “Whatever for?” he asked, his voice breaking.

  “I brought you to this,” she explained, woefully. “You married me when you had no wish to wed. And what we sought is now. . . Gone.”

  Gone. Their happiness was gone as was her sense of purpose. Somehow, she had to find it again. Otherwise, what point was there to her survival?

  *

  Over the next several weeks, the world did not seem real at all. In fact, she seemed to drift through the days, seeing and hearing little. But Adam was always there. Urging her to eat, to rest, to take fresh air.

  It was tempting to scream at him to leave her be but she could not, for she saw that he, too, was in the yawning grips of hell. So, she allowed him to hold her, to coax her back.

  Often, he brought her to the conservatory, so that she might feel the sun through the glass and see the greenery that her parents and their parents before had planted.

  Slowly, so very slowly, she felt herself rising up from the darkness. His persistence and unyielding determination to reach her, no doubt, was the reason.

  Much to her astonishment, his favorite pastime seemed to be reading to her. There were many scandalous novels with machinations so wild that they were hardly plausible. They should have made her laugh but they did not.

  He also took to reading Shakespeare.

  The main thing that did seem to pull her away from her own shadowed mind was his remarkable ability to do all the voices. He gave life to Beatrice and Benedick, Orlando and Rosalind, Romeo and Juliet, Falstaff and Prince Hal. And there was one particular passage he seemed determined to read again and again.

  Doubt thou the stars are fire,

  Doubt that the sun doth move,

  Doubt truth to be a liar,

  But never doubt I love.

  It seemed Adam had an affinity for Hamlet. He would read it again and again. She had read it herself, but his interpretation gave fresh meaning to her as she listened to the grief of the young prince, pondering the paths of sanity and madness.

  She could now understand that temptation towards madness in a way she never had before. It had been one thing to lose her family, but to lose a child? There was little to compare it with.

  Each day, her arms still ached. Her body felt confused, as if there should be a babe there, yet there was not. So, she sat, and she listened.

  She listened to the stories that Adam wove. When not reading from text, he told her stories of the journeys he’d taken, the lands he had seen.

  He was keeping something from her. She knew that. For there was no darkness to the tales he told, only wonder.

  Recently, in his eyes, she’d seen the darkness, like an animal kept firmly in a cage. It had seemed to surface that night. That awful night. He’d kept it at bay. All his energy had transferred into her care.

  Until one day, she looked about the great library and remembered why she was here.

  She had come home for a purpose and it was not to sit about.

  So, as Adam read, his rich voice filling the room, she said abruptly, “I wish to try again.”

  He lifted his gaze slowly from the pages, his face pale.

  There was no mistaking that’d he’d heard and understood the meaning of her words. Still, he made no reply. Rather, he sat as if a statue, unable to move or speak.

  “I wish to try again,” she repeated, her fingers working at the blanket over her lap.

  “It is too soon,” he said softly, closing the book in his lap.

  “It is not.”

  His chest rose and fell in a deep breath. “The doctor said at least six weeks.”

  “Those will soon be passed,” she pointed out. Time, in many ways, had seemed to stand still, but it had, indeed, passed. “And when they are, I wish to try again.”

  He closed his eyes, his brow furrowing with a frown. “Beatrix.”

  “Adam,” she said softly. “I must.”

  “Why?” he exclaimed, his voice deep with pain as he shoved the book aside. “You almost. . . Almost died.”

  Yes, she had. It had been terrifying and rent her heart, but she could not deny herself this. So, she sat up straighter, determined. “I am willing to take the risk.”

  He scowled. “I bloody well am not.”

  “You promised,” she reminded, a certain unstoppable need forcing her along. “When you married me. You would not leave me until I was with child.”

  “What makes you think I would leave you now?” he asked, his voice a mere breath.

  “I- I don’t think you would.” She balled her hands in her lap. “But I want a child.”

  “Beatrix, please.” His own hands formed fists as his voice twisted with pain. “I want you. I want you.”

  She shook her head, single-minded. Her whole soul and body ached for what she asked of him. “It is what I am meant to do.”

  “A destiny?” he queried. A muscle in his cheek tightened. “An heir.”

  “Yes,” she confirmed. After all, it was what had driven her now since the night Hyacinth told her of the transfer of title.

  He looked away, blanching.

  “You promised,” she reminded again, her heart thundering in her chest. Would he refuse? The idea did not bear contemplating.

  He nodded, resigned. “I did. I’ve never been a liar.”

  “Do not start now,” she urged.

  He swung his gaze back to her, the patience and kindness which had been there for weeks vanishing. “Damn it, Beatrix. Do you know what it was like, watching you on that bed. . .”

  “I was on that bed,” she cut in, not willing for him to imagine his experience was worse than hers.

  His throat worked as they stared at each other silently. But then he angled his head. “When you speak, you speak of an heir. Not a child. Not a living, beautiful thing.”

  She narrowed her eyes, appalled at his line of thinking. “How dare you.”

  “Dare I what?” he countered, his voice dangerously quiet. “Point it out to you that you are not seeking something to love, but to inherit,” he gestured the room around them, “this.”

  “To inherit a legacy, yes. To inherit hundreds of years of my family’s history. You cannot possibly understand that.”

  “You’re right, I cannot,” he agreed. He leaned forward as he asked, “Am I not enough?”

  “Adam?” She did not understand his meaning. Enough? “Enough for what?”

  “For you?” he explained. “Is all this what you truly want? This house and title and land? And an heir?” He blinked, his lips tightening. “Or do you want me?”

  She shook her head, stunned by his sudden line of questioning. “You knew when you married me what it was for.”

  He let out a wild sound then stood. “Yes, but damn it Beatrix. I—”

&nbs
p; “Yes?” she prompted.

  “I love you,” he declared. “And I cannot bear to lose you.”

  She stared at him, barely able to comprehend his words. He loved her? Surely, it was impossible. They had not married for love. His own nature, the wildness of him? He had always seemed somehow unattainable for love. Passion? Yes. Love? No.

  “Am I not enough for you?” he asked again softly, taking a step towards her.

  As she stared at him, and took in what he was potentially asking her to give up, to give up her past and her family’s memory, her words caught in her throat. She did not know. She did not know if it would be enough.

  Adam gave a tight, accepting nod, his face a mask of pain.

  And after weeks of being at her side, Adam headed for the door.

  “Adam,” she called. “Please understand!”

  Seemingly stricken, he paused. “Do not worry, Beatrix. I understand. I knew when I married you what this was. It is foolish of me to think there could be more. And now, I need to be by myself. I need to think.”

  Reason told her to beg him not to go. To stay, because he had been her rock through all of the pain and fear. That he had been the one to teach her to live again. As he strode from the room, leaving her to sit alone before the fire, she realized that she had expected he would bring her back from the brink again.

  It was what he excelled at.

  But who would bring him back?

  Tears slipped down her cheeks. She looked up to the portrait of her father above the fire. His eyes gazed lovingly down at her. What would her father have done? Would he have thrown his duty away for love?

  But it wasn’t just duty. She did want a child. And she wanted it to be Adam’s. How had she not let him see that? The sound of a horse’s hooves pounded down the gravel drive and she pulled herself up and stumbled towards the window, only to see him racing away. Racing to God knew where.

  They were both alone. Utterly alone. And nothing was going to be right again.

  Chapter 22

  Adam strode up the gangplank of his ship, exhausted, his spirit as weary as his body. He paused, gripping the rope railing and savored the familiar creak and sway of the ship at its moorings.