Page 86 of An Offer By the Beastly Duke

Malcolm turned toward her immediately, the lethal ice in his expression melting into a desperate, frantic panic. “Penelope.”

Her chest heaved in uneven, shallow gasps. She stared at him through wide, tear-filled eyes, looking at his rain-drenched frame as though she could not quite believe he was real, that he was truly standing there in the flesh.

Then, her knees simply gave out beneath her.

Malcolm caught her effortlessly before her slippers could even hit the stone floor. She let out a broken, shuddering sound the exact millisecond his massive arms closed around her, burying her face into the crook of his neck.

“Malcolm… oh Heavens, Malcolm…”

“I have you,” he murmured roughly, his voice thick with an emotion that threatened to choke him. “I have you, Penelope. You are safe.”

His large hands moved over her skin quickly, frantically checking every inch of her. His thumbs lightly traced her face, her trembling arms, her slender waist. Checking for blood. Checking for fractures. Already, dark, ugly purple bruises were beginning to darken visibly beneath her delicate skin where Charles had gripped her.

A fresh wave of murderous rage flooded Malcolm’s veins so intensely his vision blurred briefly at the edges.

Penelope gripped the wet front of his riding coat tightly, her fingers digging into the wool. “Nicholas… where is Nicholas?”

“He is safe. He found me on the lawn. He’s at the house.”

Her honey-brown eyes shut instantly at the words. The long, shuddering breath that left her lungs sounded almost painful in its profound relief.

Behind them, the sound of heavy boots came pounding toward the ruined glasshouse doors. Three footmen and two burly stable hands burst inside, carrying glowing lanterns and iron rods, their breath misting in the chill air.

All of them stopped completely dead in their tracks at the scene before them: Charles lay sprawled completely unconscious in a pool of dirt and shattered pottery. The new Duchess was half-clinging, half-collapsed against the Duke, her gown torn. Broken glass and shattered clay were everywhere.

Malcolm didn’t look away from Penelope for a single second, keeping her shielded against his chest. “Bring him to the house,” he ordered the servants, his deep voice dropping into a cold, flat register that brooked no delay. “Lock him in the cellar rooms. And send a rider for the magistrate immediately.”

The oldest footman swallowed visibly, bowing his head. “Yes, Your Grace.”

Malcolm slid one powerful arm beneath Penelope’s knees and lifted her fully, effortlessly, into his arms. She clung to him the exact moment her feet left the ground. Not delicately, not as a timid society lady, but desperately, her arms locked around his neck as if he were the only solid thing left in a crumbling world.

Malcolm’s jaw tightened until the muscles jumped. As he carried her out of the wreckage of the glasshouse and into the cool autumn rain, he did not look back once at the unconscious form of Charles.

He knew with absolute certainty that if he looked at the man again, he would kill him with his bare hands.

Nicholas was waiting anxiously in the grand entrance hall of Brigrock Hall, wrapped tightly in three heavy wool blankets beside a roaring hearth. The moment the heavy front doors swung open and he saw them, the boy tore entirely free from the grasp of the elderly groom holding him and ran across the marble floor.

“Mama!”

Penelope nearly tumbled straight out of Malcolm’s arms, reaching downward with desperate, open hands. “Nicholas! Oh, my darling!”

Malcolm set her down with immense care, ensuring her feet were steady beneath her silk skirts. The little boy collided into both of them at once, throwing his arms wildly around Penelope’s neck while simultaneously burying his face against her side and clutching a fistful of Malcolm’s wet leather coat.

Penelope dropped directly to her knees on the cold marble, completely unbothered by her ruined skirts. Malcolm’s large hand tightened immediately at her waist, providing the steady, unyielding support she needed to keep from collapsing.

Nicholas pulled back slightly, his small, trembling fingers reaching up to carefully, reverently touch the dark red bruise blooming across her cheekbone. “Did… did you get hurt, Mama?”

Penelope forced a small smile that trembled violently at the edges, her eyes shining with unshed tears. “No. No, my dear, I am all right.”

She pulled Nicholas tightly against her chest again, burying her face in his damp hair.

Malcolm crouched down beside them on the floor, his massive frame enveloping them both.

The sheer sight of them hit him harder, deeper, than any of the physical violence in the glasshouse had.

Here was Penelope, shaking with a profound, lingering terror, yet using every ounce of her maternal strength to keep from frightening her son. And here was Nicholas, trying so desperately to be a brave little man while still clutching both of them as though he feared one might vanish into thin air if he let go.

My family.