Exile’s Bane by Nicole Margot Spencer Page A

stomach roiled. What could I tell him? Surely I would never see him again—I would lose that precious, vital spark between us—should he learn of my betrothal. He was too honorable a man to do otherwise. Though it was too early and too wet for it, the vagrant smell of lavender, from Mrs. Reedy’s garden no doubt, wafted past us. I hesitated, desolate. In the end, I took a great breath.
    “I cannot tell you that I will wait for you, Duncan. There are things . . . matters over which I have no control.”
    He studied me as though he could see through me.
    Could he sense my need for him? At that moment, I was ready to throw my heritage away for him, though I knew I would hate myself later. And so I stood there in wretched silence and watched him expel a breath.
    “Aye,” he said, as though he had been prepared for this answer. He threw his shoulders back, reached under his cloak, and brought out one of his long-barreled pistols. “It is fully charged, should you need it.”
    “Thank you,” I said meekly, glad to have the weapon. I took it and dropped it in my hand beside me.
    “Don’t tell your friend of our forces coming. Can I depend on you for that?”
    “You can.”
    “Also, the aftermath of battle can be deadly. When we enter Bolton, I will send guards here for your protection.” His cloak rippled at its lower edge to the accompaniment of shuffling feet.
    “Duncan?”
    “Yes?” He studied his boots and would not look at me. The front door scraped open at the house, but I ignored it.
    “Please take care.” I shoved the pistol into my deep cloak pocket, stood on my toes, and threw my arms around his neck, hitting his hat, which flew off. Neither of us went after it, for I pulled his head down and kissed him.
    His mouth was soft and pliant. He put his arms around me and pulled me close within the shelter of his cloak. My lips parted, and he caressed my inner mouth with his tongue in an embrace that sent me, mind and body, into a whirlwind.
    He dropped his head to my shoulder with a sigh, his breath hot on my neck. “So it is not hopeless, you and me?”
    At that moment, I desired him desperately. My hunger for him overwhelmed any logic that remained in me. I ran my hands around his waist and hugged him to me, my breasts tight against the warmth of his clothed chest.
    The clump of heavy footsteps approached us over the stone walkway. We stepped quickly apart.
    “And who are you?” It was Thomas, puffed up in arrogance. He glared not so much at Duncan himself as at his long red locks.
    Duncan returned the glower with a frown of distrust. He turned to leave.
    “Wait,” I cried. “I want you to meet my friend.”
    He turned back and came up close beside me, protective still.
    “This is Thomas.” I pushed open the shabby little gate that hung by one tattered leather hinge and pulled Duncan in with me. “He has been a good friend throughout my childhood.” I stepped forward, clasped Thomas’ arm, and motioned at the big, black-cloaked man who now stood within the gate. “This is Duncan, who is very special to me.”
    “Yes, I could see that. Who is he?”
    Duncan’s rust-colored eyebrows crawled together in irritation.
    “Thomas, be civil.” I shook his arm for emphasis.
    I turned apologetically back to Duncan to find that his gaze had shifted into the distance behind me. When I looked, it was Peg who stood in the open door of the house, an odd, calculating smile on her face.
    “Stay in the house. Keep them safe,” Duncan demanded of Thomas. He turned smartly on his heel, his cloak awhirl behind him. Hat back securely on his head, he was mounted and on his way toward town before Thomas, who blustered in wordlessness, could collect himself enough to respond.
    “Cocksure bastard.”
     
     

Chapter Seven
    The condition of the little front gate should have prepared me for what I would find in the house. His mother had died last year and, knowing Thomas’ propensities, I should have expected what I