Page 9 of Her Tempestuous Duke

That might be sensible. She raised her arms, expecting to put them around his neck and be carried in front of him like a limp damsel from a book illustration. But no. Romance was not in Prospero’s repertoire. He caught her wrists together and heaved her over his broad shoulder, so her head hung by his waist and her legs flailed against his back.

This man had no sense of decency! She must forget that she had pitied him. Right now, she felt more inclined to kick him, only—her position was so precarious as they made their way down the spiral stairs, it would have been unwise.

When they reached the kitchen, his gentleness returned, and he set her down carefully, one arm grasped tightly around her waist, keeping her upright.

She gasped. The two intruders were, indeed, the footman, George, and his lordship’s valet, Pascoe. Both men lay unconscious before the hearth, their faces red, tongues lolling from their mouths. The hound, Caliban, stood over them, hackles raised, teeth bared.

She wrenched out of Prospero’s grasp, staggered, and sank to the floor. Then, uncaring of her lack of dignity, she crawled over the stone flagstones to the fallen men. First, she shook Pascoe’s shoulder—he was the older of the two and the least likely to survive such a battering as the storm had given him.

The man moaned, then let out a sound like a grunting pig. Alive, then, thank the merciful heavens!

She turned to George. He, too, was fast asleep and snoring gently. Each man sported a round, red mark on their forehead.

Turning her head slowly, she glared at Prospero.

“They weren’t asleep a moment ago—I heard them.” She thought of what he’d given her to drink, the rum and herbs. Had the herbs added more than flavor to that drink? Had the servants drunk the same mixture? No—there hadn’t been time. What power had this peculiar creature used to subdue two men? Magic? Witchcraft? Anything was possible on this island that wasn’t an island, where a dead woman was worshipped in a beehive hut, and a multi-colored bird spoke with a human voice.

Prospero raised an eyebrow. “I was in a hurry, thinking you’d hurt yourself. I had tired of the argument anyway, so I ran their two thick skulls together. They were so drunk that I imagine they barely felt it.”

There was no apology in his expression. He was a hard man, for all that he had been kind to her. For the hapless Pascoe and George, there was no compassion, just anger.

“These are not common thieves, sir—they’ve been shipwrecked. They have done what anyone would do under such circumstances and looked to their well-being before anything else. How could they know that the liquor they found belonged to anyone, especially if you weren’t storing it in the inhabited part of the castle? As far as they knew, they’d been shipwrecked on a desert island, like Robinson Crusoe. That kind of plight makes a person desperate, and they take succor wherever they can find it.”

“You have led a sheltered upbringing, haven’t you, Miss Harte—do you always believe the best of people? I suppose I should be glad that you’ve escaped Anthony’s evil influence. But naivete is not a virtue in my book. You won’t survive in the world of men if you can’t look into the depths and recognize a black heart when you see one.”

What black heart? Her guardian’s? Or his own?

There was no time to question him—she needed to make sure he did no further harm to the servants.

“I didn’t ask for your opinion of me. Tell me what you mean to do with these men.”

“Fortunately, the dungeons of this castle have survived the ravages of time. They can sit and contemplate their sins alongside their employer. When they have sobered up, they can make their apologies to me, and I will let them go.”

Hope fizzed in her breast. “And you’ll let Lord Anthony go as well?”

His eyes blazed at her. “Never!” Reaching down, he seized both George and Pascoe by the collar and hauled them upright. Pascoe retched.

“Don’t you dare cast up your accounts in front of this young lady. Miss Harte, stay where you are. Caliban! Guard.”

Before she could object, Prospero had turned his back on her and dragged both men through the door toward a darkened passageway.

“No! Wait!”

Why did he react with such fury to her suggestion that he release her guardian? There was some story here—could it be true that this merciless, mannerless hermit was Lord Anthony’s older brother? And if he wanted to be called Tremar, he must want the dukedom. Anything that threatened Lord Anthony also endangered her.

She must get the truth out of their captor, somehow or other. And as soon as she had full control of her faculties, she would find a way to release the poor souls incarcerated by the castle’s cruel master.

Chapter Six

When Parys returned to the kitchen, what he saw caught his heart in an agonizing grip.

The fire had been built up to a cheerful blaze. Miss Harte reclined partly on the floor, partly propped against a barrel. Caliban had flopped down by her side, his head resting in her lap while she fondled his ears.

Neither seemed aware of Parys’ presence, so he looked his fill and tried to make sense of the pain in his chest. Regret? At something he might have had but now never would? Loss? There had been love in his life once before, love for his family—even love for Anthony before he’d turned out wholly bad. Or was he wounded by the treachery of the animal he’d saved from a watery grave?

Or something even more unnerving? As the pain threatened to overwhelm him, he clapped his hands.

“Caliban, you rump-fed runion—is this how you repay me for my kindness?”