The Duke's Temptation Page 18

  It was amazing what a good meal could do to an irritable mood. After putting away the best part of a game pie and several slices of rare roast beef and quaffing a large tankard of McAra’s best home brew, Gibb felt a lot better and more able to ruminate over the events of the past week or so.

  The knife-thrower. Her independence, feistiness and talent.

  The matchmaking mamas. Their annoying ways and machinations.

  The desperate debs. The same as their mamas.

  His friends. Loyal to a fault.

  Himself. A pig-headed, ignorant, stupid, couldn’t-see-what-was-in-front-of-him-or-in-his-heart idiot.

  Evangeline… Here he paused. And what about Evangeline?

  Had he missed something vital? If he had, could he admit it? He was too tired to fathom that out. He took himself to his empty bed.

  * * * *

  Hard manual labor was a wonderful way of ensuring one slept a good eight hours out of every twenty-four, Gibb decided several weeks later. It was a pity it didn’t stop all his dreams. Gibb dragged himself up the stone stairs to the laird’s chambers in the turret each night and had to force himself not to fall asleep in the bath. He ate without tasting the food, drank his dram without savoring it and dropped into bed as if he’d been felled.

  And dreamed. Snatches of how he’d spoken to Evangeline. How he’d stroked her skin, the softness, her curves and hollows there for him to discover. Shown her how a man and a woman could enjoy each other’s bodies without risking pregnancy. Reveled in the way she touched him, caressed him and brought him to completion. Heard her soft voice with its enticing accent speaking to him. “My Gibb.” And pulled back when he thought she might be getting under his skin.

  Then she’d had enough. Could he blame her? That question stayed unanswered.

  Three weeks of outdoors work alongside his estate workers followed his arrival north. He shared the midday lunches of his workers, quaffed their ale and added a basket of pies and pastries from the castle kitchen to each meal eaten sitting against the new barn walls. He always remembered another basket to be shared among their families, for although he was a generous employer, treats never went amiss. Putting in the same long hours they did gave Gibb a healthy respect for just how damn lucky he was with his staff. To say nothing of a leaner, harder body and a golden tan. It was unfortunate it didn’t give him peace of mind or a decent night’s sleep.

  Plus, according to McTavish, his longest-serving worker, who, these days was more of a foreman than a grafter, he wore a look no man should ever have. Unless he’d just laid his mother to rest or lost his fortune at cards. Gibb couldn’t explain it was neither and felt like both. Instead he tried to laugh it off. McTavish said nothing else until at the end of the third week. On the Friday Gibb decreed the new barn perfect, the hedges as he wanted them and the dry stone walls nigh on finished. There would be, he declared, a ceilidh to christen the new building on Saturday night with food and drink provided by the castle.

  As his workers thanked him and made their weary ways home, McTavish hung back. Gibb ducked his head in the horse trough, shook it so as much water as possible fell onto the ground, not his sweat-soaked shirt, wiped his face on his neckerchief and picked up his jacket.

  “All right, Gregor, spit it out,” he said, short of temper and out of sorts. “I’ve a dram waiting with my name on it. Two drams even.” He wanted to sink into a bath with the whisky and do nothing.

  “Go and see her and sort yersel oot laddie.” The man’s normal thick local dialect became almost unintelligible when he was emotional. As then. “Thons nae daein anyone any good like y’are the noo. We need a laird, no a tattieboggle.”

  “Are you saying I look like a scarecrow?” Gibb asked, amused at the comparison. Indeed, he was wearing his oldest clothes and he could do with a haircut and to trim his beard, but he’d thought he had a better body than one purporting to scare the crows away. “I thought I was fitter than when I arrived.”

  “Ah, yae are ben the body, but nae in yer soul,” the old man said and spat into a nearby ditch. “It’s got to be a wimman. Nae’an else could get ye like that. Got ye by the baws has she? Ach weeel, it’s aboot time ye forgot thon besom ye were marrit to.” He spat on the ground. “Respect fer the deid has tae be earned. She didnae.”

  Gibb shrugged his jacket on. “No,” he said. “She didn’t earn anyone’s respect, did she? I’m sorry for what you all had to endure at her hands.” On the rare occasion she had visited the castle, his late wife had never said or done anything positive to endear herself to the people of the estate—anything but. Gibb couldn’t say who was happiest when she no longer visited, him, her or them.

  “Ha, we didnae get much o’ her. You did. Anyhoo now it’s over, eh? Time ta move on.”

  “I hope so.” If she’ll let me after the way I have behaved.

  “Ach, yer nee tae dae sommat or you’ll be a lang streak o’ misery.” McTavish doffed his cap, cackled and ambled off down the track to his croft.

  Gibb watched him go and smiled. Trust the old man to say it as he saw it, and do it in such a way as to make Gibb listen. He watched until McTavish disappeared and turned on his heel to make his own way home. There was, he noticed, a purpose to his steps that hadn’t been there before. He had plans to finish the work started and also ideas for the work he hoped to accomplish.

  Would Evangeline listen to him if he sought her out on his return to London? Could he now put Hester behind him? Dare he trust and love again? Was he prepared to open up his life and his heart to someone else? To share his thoughts, words and needs with that person and be prepared to do the same for them? The questions whirled through his mind. Too much information to sift through in one fell swoop. He needed to be able to think in a rational manner.

  And, he realized, go to Devon and lay those demons to rest. But not before he’d seen Evangeline and tried to discover why she’d called it a day.

  “Johnson?” he shouted to his factor as he entered the castle and took the stairs three at a time.

  Johnson, a gnarled gnome-like man with a dour demeanor and a heart of gold, popped his head out of the room he used for estate business. “Your grace?”

  “I’ll be heading south at dawn on Sunday after church. There’s a ceilidh tomorrow night to christen the new barn. I’ll be chatting to Mrs. Cruikshank as soon as I’m decent.” The cook was a favorite of his, ever since she’d snuck him black bun on a Sabbath. “Can you arrange things for me, please? Especially for Sunday. Bare necessities.”

  Now all he had to do was enjoy the sort of occasion he’d shunned in recent years and make peace with his soul.

  Nothing to it.

  Why did he not believe himself?

  * * * *

  Gibb soon decided that to ride from one end of the country to the other could be no one’s idea of pleasure. Especially as he wondered if a very special lady would ever forgive him. The roads still hadn’t recovered from winter, the inns in some places were few and far between and the horses in general were not what Gibb was used to. One in particular took exception to every gust of wind, every sheep in a field and every farm worker with a scythe. After three miles of a buck, a kick and an ungainly sidestep every few seconds, Gibb was almost ready to break the habit of a lifetime and use his whip. That he didn’t was a testament to his strong will and reluctance to hurt an animal.

  Compassion, an inner voice mocked him. You have compassion. The thought didn’t bring him out in a cold sweat anymore. He was cautiously optimistic he was on the mend. Even so, he changed that animal at the first opportunity.

  Some areas were wild and the moors dangerous. He rode with one hand on his pistol and one eye scanning his surroundings for anything untoward. The last thing he wanted was to die before he’d had a chance to make amends with Evangeline.

  By the eighth day he swore he would walk barrel-legged forever. It had been a long while since he’d had to exist on a horse and fight for his life in between times. Now his life was n
o longer in danger but his future happiness was. Tension was not a good companion on horseback. He vowed that once he arrived at his chosen inn, that night, he would spend longer than usual in a bath.

  “Alford, you’ve gone soft,” he said to himself as he clattered over a wooden bridge and into a tiny hamlet where the duck pond seemed bigger than the settlement itself. Times were when ten days in the saddle would have seemed nothing. Not anymore. He yearned to walk, to sit in comfort and, he admitted, sort his life out. At least the Scottish estate was running smoothly. The ceilidh had been a great success, he hadn’t drunk too much ale or whisky and he’d left the castle the following day within ten minutes of when he had intended. However, a ride of over five hundred miles over a mixture of roads and terrain wasn’t going to be accomplished in a day or two.

  Now, though, he could almost sniff the sea, and with luck he would reach Cove House the following day.

  A rotund man ran out to greet him as Gibb clattered into the stable yard of the tiny inn, followed by two ostlers. The first man—the landlord—took a step back when he saw Gibb dismount, and bowed. Not before Gibb saw the welcoming grin on the man’s face.

  “Your grace, how good to see you back. Your usual suite is ready and waiting for you.”

  “I hope you haven’t moved anyone out for me, Cubbins,” Gibb said as he handed his saddlebags over to a waiting manservant. “I’m so weary that as long as I can have a bath, I’d sleep in the stables if need be.” He stretched his arms over his head and rotated his shoulders. “I’ve had a long ride. I want to soak my aches away, have some food and a glass of ale, in that order. No, the bath and the ale together sounds even better.”

  “Ah, London is a fair distance,” Cubbins said as he escorted Gibb indoors and ushered him into a private parlor.

  “Scotland is even farther,” Gibb said with a laugh. “I’ve been in the saddle so long I’m amazed I remember how to walk.”

  The landlord smiled uncertainly, as if he wasn’t sure how to respond to such a sally. Gibb shook his head. “I’m jesting, Cubbins. I’m just sick of horseback. A jug of your ale, a bath to relax in and soak away my grime, followed by one of Jessie’s meals and I’ll be fine.”

  “I’ll get the ale now and my Jessie’ll sort the rest.” He bustled out and Gibb heard him shouting orders to someone in the back of the inn. Gibb assumed it was the man’s wife, Jessie.

  Gibb stretched his legs out in front of him, accepted the ale a fresh-faced maid brought in, and sighed. What if he was unable to lay his demons to rest? What then?

  Chapter Eleven

  “Are you sure this is a good idea?” Evangeline said dubiously to Julia, as arm in arm they strolled through the park. Although she knew her clothing was impeccable, as befitted a young or, she amended in her head, youngish lady who was unmarried, it didn’t negate who she was. A French émigré knife-thrower with no known aristocratic or wealthy antecedents or relations to place her status. Even if she was dressed by the best in town.

  “I mean, I am a commoner, your reputation will be spoiled and—”

  “And nothing,” Julia said and tightened her hold on Evangeline’s arm as if she could see the younger woman was ready to bolt. “I am an eccentric, evidently. And if you are seen with me, people will think I know something about your background they do not. I love to send them into a tizzy. So many have nothing better to do than gossip, we might tease them and give them something to gossip about. I wager at least five people will pay a call on me in the morning to try and ferret out what we are up to. I will take delight in confusing them. Now, ignore all that. You do want to see Iain, do you not? In a casual accidental way where no one will pay much attention.”

  “Yes, of course I do, but it all seems, oh, I don’t know, underhand and forward.” And what if he ignores me or calls Julia on her behavior? “Are you sure this is the right tack to take? Could we not, oh, I don’t know, meet somewhere else?”

  “Where?” Julia asked with a twinkle in her eye. “Almack’s? The clubs? My sitting room? None would work as I desire. There would be too many people or too much of a scandal. This way it is apparently by chance.”

  “Forward and underhand by chance.”

  Julia tapped Evangeline’s cheek. “I will not allow forward, but of course it is underhand. Men are so clueless. Gibb Alford for instance. He couldn’t see what was under his nose and took himself off to sulk, silly man. I had to blackmail Bertie with no…ah…” She colored and grinned. “Need I spell it out?”

  Evangeline shook her head. Oh, how she missed that closeness she had enjoyed with Gibb until…until she had decided she could go on no longer. Now she almost wished she had given herself to him, learned those last mystical stages and discovered what it was like to wholly belong to a man. But then, if his heart were not engaged it would be a hollow sham.

  “Good, so chin up,” Julia said. “Take that mournful look from your face and lose the shadows in your eyes. He’s not worth it.”

  “Pardon?” Evangeline said, and winced at the frost in her voice. But what did Julia know about it? She was happily married, comfortable and lacked for nothing.

  Julia laughed. “I know you miss Gibb, but he is a mere man. They always need time to come to their senses.”

  “But what if he never does,” Evangeline said in despair. “What then?”

  “Then he is not worthy of your pain, my dear.” Julia gave her a swift hug. “Now then, I had to amend our plan a little. I realized that to loiter at the end of St. James was not in order and men can never be trusted to be at any one place at an exact time. All they need is for a wager to be entered in the betting book or for someone to stop them and ask their advice on a horse and then that is all out of kilter. The park was better. I know they always come back this way. You see the two gentlemen approaching from the left?”

  Evangeline looked and saw whom Julia meant. Two middle-aged men dressed impeccably were skirting the lake and heading in their direction. She nodded. “Who are they?”

  “Bertie on our left and Iain d’Astre on our right. Get ready to see what happens next.” Julie waved with gay enthusiasm. “Over here.”

  “Ever the hoyden, my love,” Bertie Arthur said as they reached the ladies, and he kissed his wife’s cheek before he turned to Evangeline and bowed to her curtsey. “Hello. You must be Julia’s friend Evangeline.”

  He had, Evangeline thought, the most beautiful smile, even if his expression was quizzical as he looked from Evangeline to his wife, then Le Duc d’Astre before he returned his gaze to Evangeline once more

  Evangeline nodded. “Evangeline Coeur, my lord.”

  “Bertie, for if my wife is Julia, I refuse to be my lord, convention be damned,” Bertie said emphatically.

  “Bertie,” Evangeline said dutifully as she looked at the tall, raven-haired man next to Bertie Arthur. He looked as if he had seen a ghost.

  “Eve,” he said. He gulped and blinked several times. “You must know my Eve?” He was as white as his cravat and held so tightly on to his cane his knuckles were the same color.

  Evangeline went hot and cold. “My mama was Eve,” she said quietly as her sorrow washed over her at the thought of that gentle woman. “I’m sorry, she died a year ago.”

  “Ah.” He shook his head and took a deep breath. “So you are her sole daughter?”

  “Her only child.”

  The duc swayed, took her hand with his free one and rested her little finger next to his. The shape and angle of them both matched. As Bertie and Julie stood as still as a tableau, d’Astre swept Evangeline’s hair back and looked at her earlobes. “Eve said if she had a child she would call her Evangeline. Eve and Iain. To remind her of our all-too-short time together. But I swear she told me she wasn’t with child. I would never have left if I had known.”

  “Perhaps that is why,” Evangeline said gently. It could have just been the two of them with no one else around. Bertie and Julia were silent witnesses to the emotional scene.

 
“Then the terrors and…” He swallowed. “Your ears. Just like Eve, they are not the same. She, God help us… Bertie, get us away from here and to somewhere I can sit down and we can talk.” Iain d’Astre sighed and his eyes were suspiciously bright. “Unbelievable as it seems, and I had no idea she existed, but I think I’ve found my daughter.”

  * * * *

  It hadn’t hurt as much as he’d imagined it would, Gibb decided. He walked out of Cove House at a brisk pace, found a horse, and without saddle or bridle cantered toward the cliff top above the private bay where he kept his boat.

  As he rode along the narrow windy lanes of Devon, the closer he got to the border of the estate, the worse he felt. Clammy skin. Short of breath. When he saw the sea with its white-capped waves he had to use all his force of will not to faint or fall off his horse.

  A sailing boat beating up the channel didn’t make things easier. His eyes were drawn to it like a magnet. Was it safe? Would it capsize? What could he do if it did?

  It took twenty long minutes before it rounded a headland and went out of sight. His understanding of the tides and currents reassured Gibb all would now be as he desired and he could breathe easier. Even so, his heart still beat erratically and an annoying tic danced at the corner of his eye. Only the knowledge that unless he faced his demons he would never be healed or have a chance of discovering if he and Evangeline stood a chance of a future kept him going.

  The first glimpse of a house he hadn’t seen in ten years took him by surprise. Hedges had grown higher, trees taller and the front drive was unkempt. As it was used by visitors, and no one else, Gibb reckoned there had been little traffic over the past years, and even if he resolved his issues it wasn’t likely to change overmuch. He wasn’t there to socialize, and doubted that would change in the future. This was a slay the dragons, make peace with his soul and move on visit. It had always been more Hester’s bolt hole than his.