Page 3 of An Offer By the Beastly Duke

She repeated it like a liturgy, pushing through another briar that snatched at her hair. Another low branch caught the high of her cheekbone, but still, she did not stop, not when her son’s life could have been in danger.

The Duke’s castle rose to its full, intimidating splendor as she burst out of the trees, the bushes around it thick and unkempt, the candles in the windows low and almost ghostly.

Not a single shadow passed by, and too many shadows otherwise draped the estate. Penelope stood on the grounds, panting, as she scoured the darkness for an entrance.

But then what?

Nicholas’ escape was putting her in danger too, but Penelope had long sworn no length was too far to go to protect her child. Keeping to the shadows, Penelope hurried to the front door, but halfway down the grounds, she heard a rustle and a tiny giggle.

As she crept closer to the sound, from the scant light from the castle, Penelope caught a glimpse of her son’s dark brown hair, curled, just like her own. He was dashing through the hedges, dodging and ducking as though it was second nature.

He moved nimbly, avoiding any pools of light, before he disappeared. Penelope muffled her cry of alarm, even as relief flooded her. Yet, as relieved as she was, they were now both on the Duke’s grounds.

Unauthorized.

Trespassing.

“Nicholas,” she breathed. Her son didn’t reappear, though, so she started off in his direction. “Nicholas, come back here.” Her low but urgent voice sounded too loud in the darkness.

She whipped her head toward the entrance she spotted with her nearness to the castle, checking it wasn’t open—or opening.

Her heart hammered in her chest, reminding her that she had to get Nicholas and escape as soon as they could lest they were caught. But he’d disappeared through the bushes, and she pushed after him, emerging out of the other side onto another part of the castle’s grounds.

Framed like a painting in a clearing near a small stone cottage, her son was on his knees in the dirt, his face split by a wide, reckless grin.

A low, guttural growl vibrated through the air.

Penelope’s heart stopped. A massive English setter, white with chestnut mottling, stood inches from the boy’s face.

“Nicholas, move away. Slowly,” she whispered, her body tensing to spring.

“Look, Mama! He likes the chicken!” Nicholas held out a greasy scrap of poultry. They themselves had eaten it just that evening; he must have stolen the remainder.

The dog didn’t snap, though, even as Nicholas’ excited hands waved the food over its mouth. Its tail gave a singular, powerful thud against the ground.

“Go on, boy!” Nicholas encouraged, lowering the meat closer. Penelope clasped a hand over her mouth right as the dog’s mouth opened, exposing sharp canines. However, it delicately took the meat from the boy’s fingers before licking his cheek.

Penelope let out a shuddering breath, her knees nearly giving way.

Nicholas looked up and beamed at her. Actually beamed, as though she had arrived at a party he had been waiting for her to show up at—as though this was his secret, and he was delighted to share it with her.

“See, Mama?” Nicholas asked. “He is friendly! Friendly and my friend.” Her little boy frowned, pausing. “Though that might be because I bring him chicken.”

“And… and how often?” Penelope’s voice was faint, and she knew it was not the time for questions. They really had to go. Before Nicholas could answer, she muttered, “I thought you had disappeared to the creek. I was terribly worried, Nicholas. Come, we must leave at once before⁠—”

“Before you are caught trespassing on a duke’s estate?” A voice asked from behind Nicholas.

Her heart in her throat, Penelope slowly looked to the cottage, the heavy oak door groaning open on rusted hinges.

A wall of heat spilled out, carrying the scent of cedar and aged brandy.

A man filled the frame. His shoulders were so broad they brushed both sides of the casing. He didn’t wear a coat; his white shirt was unbuttoned at the throat, revealing a neck corded with hard muscle. Dark, brown hair curled around his collar, messy and slick with the night’s heat.

Blue-gray eyes stared out at her, narrowed and angry, but also perhaps mildly intrigued.

Behind him, candlelight flickered, haloing his wide frame and bare forearms from the sleeves that were rolled up.

But the illumination shined more light on his face. Penelope didn’t scream, but her grip on Nicholas tightened, already protectively ready to tug her son back.