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Forbidden to the Duke
Liz Tyner
The expectations of a duke are simple: 1. Secure a suitable marriage. 2. Produce male heirs.For Rhys Rolleston, Duke of Harling, however, it's not so black-and-white when he catches Bellona Cherroll trespassing on his land. He's captivated by this exotic beauty, but Rhys knows she's the very antithesis of what a "suitable" duchess should be.What should he do? Avoid her at all costs. What does he do? Invite her to live under his roof!
‘Be quiet and listen.’
His chin tilted down. His brows rose. ‘Yes, Miss Cherroll?’
‘I will not stay here.’
He waited, his gaze locked onto hers.
‘My sister needs me for the children,’ she said.
‘I understand completely,’ he said, his voice agreeable, and stepped to the door. ‘You can take my carriage to visit them as often as you wish.’
One stride and he would be out of her vision.
‘It is not a problem at all. Send your maid in Warrington’s carriage for your things. The housekeeper will be with you shortly to help you select a room.’
He was gone by the time she opened her mouth.
AUTHOR NOTE (#ulink_8cbd9d2a-e8a7-5116-952a-5e8a5c87e6b4)
Bellona’s story was formed while I was writing my previous book, A Captain and a Rogue.
I first envisaged her as wanting to be like the Grecian heroine Laskarina Bouboulina, who owned a large warship and would have been active around 1822, when Forbidden to the Duke begins. I also planned for Bellona to be a bit of a Robin Hood in spirit. With knife and archery skills that can protect her from many dangers—except the most surprising ones.
But Bellona became a different character from the warrior I first imagined. When this story begins she’s on the path to separation from the security of her family and making her own world. The new hobby she finds at the end of the book wasn’t planned until the words were being written, but I feel it truly expresses who she was meant to be, and the part of her she’s hidden from herself.
I hope you enjoy Bellona and Rhys’s journey, and that you see them as I do—two people who have to step out of the roles they were born into and rise to be the beginnings of a new legacy.
Forbidden
to the Duke
Liz Tyner
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
LIZ TYNER lives with her husband on an Oklahoma acreage she imagines is similar to the ones in the children’s book Where the Wild Things Are. Her lifestyle is a blend of old and new, and is sometimes comparable to the way people lived long ago. Liz is a member of various writing groups and has been writing since childhood. For more about her visit liztyner.com (http://liztyner.com).
To Juanita Ballew, ‘Sis’, a real heroine.
Contents
Cover (#u85c04b44-c341-52ec-ae3c-93039ca7e0df)
Introduction (#u3197e1bc-9092-5921-bca8-c7dda3abd836)
AUTHOR NOTE (#uf4921cdb-b50d-5548-86df-efa39d31a30c)
Title Page (#u46b5032c-3462-5ce8-bc8b-2670d1a904ac)
About the Author (#u94c00796-0b7f-5741-8bd8-51dbaedfd669)
Dedication (#u82bb102f-c717-59ef-807a-0d41a2b4dd34)
Chapter One (#u6cdb9fee-50b5-54a6-94f7-8e1d6ae195bb)
Chapter Two (#u66377b6d-a49c-5c1c-b22b-f9a7d620fc9e)
Chapter Three (#u34741e9a-a458-5f58-8ac2-4079934c539f)
Chapter Four (#u0b5df9db-8df9-5ce3-a81f-e27a6201221a)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One (#ulink_f62a20e7-e369-55aa-8a7f-e1fd8c395206)
The pudgy-eyed gamekeeper pointed a flintlock straight at Bellona’s chest. His eyebrows spiked into angry points. ‘Drop the longbow.’ His gun barrel emphasised his words and even without the weapon his size would have daunted her. He’d not looked so large or his stare so bloodless from a distance.
Noise crashed into her ears—the sound of her heart—and the beats tried to take over every part of her. She forced the blackness away and locked her stare with his. Charred hatred, roughened by the unshaven chin, slammed out from his face.
She nodded and tossed the bow into the twining berry thorns at the side of the path. The canopy of sycamore leaves covered him in green-hued shadows.
He put one hand to his mouth, thrust his fingers to his lips and whistled loud enough to be heard in Greece. The shrill sound jabbed her, alerting her that he wasn’t alone. She’d never seen anyone else in the forest but this devil. She would be fighting two men and at least one weapon.
‘...shoot at me...’ He spoke again and the words snapped her back into understanding.
She cursed herself for not taking more care. She’d not heard him behind her—but she should have smelled his boiled-cabbage stench.
‘I be bringing his lordship,’ he said. ‘Your toes be dangling and the tide be washing your face before they cut you down. You won’t be shooting at me no more. You’re nothing more’n a common wench and people in lofty places be wantin’ you to hang.’
Her fingers stiffened, her mind unable to send them commands. She held her chin high. She’d thought she was in a safe land. She’d thought she’d escaped men who wanted to hurt her. Showing fear would be dangerous. ‘You—’ She couldn’t have taken her eyes from his. ‘I’m a guest of the Earl of Warrington and I have misplaced myself.’
The man’s nose bunched up as he talked. ‘But you ain’t on the earl’s land now, Miss Lady Nobody. You’re no better’n me.’ He waved the gun. ‘You’re a poacher and I’ve seen you here aplenty times before. I just niver could catch you.’
‘The earl will be thymomenos, angered.’
He snorted. ‘But this is the duke’s land. His Grace don’t lose no sleep over what an earl would think.’
She forced her fingers alert. ‘You are the one who should think. You must know I live near.’
‘But you ain’t no real lady. I already told the duke all about you and how you been scattering my traps and he thinks I’m imaginin’. Your eyes is even uncommon dark like some witch borne you. I told him you’re half-spirit. They hanged Mary Bateman. If they don’t be hangin’ you, you’ll end up lyin’ with vermin in gaol. Good ’nuff for you.’
He indicated the trail behind himself by swinging the barrel of the gun towards it. ‘Don’t move a feather.’ The gamekeeper swaggered. ‘His Grace be right behind me. I told him I set my traps near and this time I be catchin’ somethin’ big. You’ve ruined your last snare.’
Footsteps in the leaves signalled the approach of another. Bellona rested her left hand on the top of arrows tucked into the quiver strapped around her waist. ‘You can go to the devil.’
The shoulders of another man came into view, and Bellona swallowed. She needed all of her strength. Two men to fight.
The gamekeeper stepped off the path so the other one could see her.
The duke stopped beside the gamekeeper and the scent of the air became clean. The newcomer examined her, not scowling or smiling.
She would not have thought this man a peer had she seen him without introduction, but she would have known him for a gentleman. His neckcloth looped in a simple, soft knot. His boots reached his knees and his dark riding coat had plain buttons. He wore every thread as if it had been woven to his own order. Sunlight dappled over lean cheeks. His eyes were the same colour as her own.
Her stomach clenched, but not with fear. She’d made a mistake. She’d looked into his eyes. For the first time in her life, she was afraid of something inside herself.
She stepped back.
‘Your Grace, I caught the murderous culprit what’s been stealing the hares from my traps and wishin’ curses on us all. She be a common thief, a murderous woman and full of meanness, just like I said.’ The gamekeeper’s words spewed out, leaving even less air for Bellona to breathe. ‘You want I should send the stable boy for the magistrate?’
The duke gave the slightest shake of his head. ‘You are mistaken, Wicks. I will see her back to my estate safely and ensure that she is escorted on her way.’
‘She be a thief, Your Grace, and a bewitched woman. Why, see how her eyes be puttin’ evil my direction now. She be tryin’ to burn me into ash right where I stand.’
‘Miss—’ the newcomer directed his words to Bellona and he leaned forward as he peered at her ‘—have you been poaching on my land?’
She sensed somehow that he jested with her. ‘No. Never,’ Bellona said, shaking her head. The knife was in her boot. But she didn’t want to attack. She only wanted to flee.
The duke’s lips firmed and he took in a small breath on his next words. ‘Wicks...’
The gamekeeper’s stance tightened and he rushed his words. ‘She tossed her bow into the briars. She’d kill a man herself for blood sport. She’d cut out his heart and cook it.’
The duke’s lips tightened at one side and his eyes dismissed the other man’s words.
‘I don’t eat hearts,’ Bellona inserted, directing a look straight into the vile man. ‘Only brains. You are safe.’
‘Your Grace,’ the gamekeeper sputtered, outrage and fury mixed. ‘She’s—’
‘Quiet.’ The duke’s words thrust into the air with the seriousness of a sword point held to the throat.
He stepped towards her, moving over the fallen log in the path, his hand out. ‘The lady and I have not been introduced, but as this isn’t a soirée, I think—’
Instinctively, she pulled an arrow from the quiver and held the tip against the duke’s grey silk waistcoat—pressing.
His arm halted, frozen.
‘Do not touch me.’ Her words copied his in command.
His eyes widened and he straightened. ‘I was going to take your arm. My pardon. It’s usually received well, I assure you.’
She kept the arrow at his stomach, trying to keep the spirit around him from overtaking her.
The gamekeeper moved so the weapon again pointed at her. ‘Just give me the word, Your Grace, I’ll save you. She be tryin’ to kill a peer. No sense wasting good rope round that boney neck.’
‘Put the flintlock away, Wicks. Now.’ The duke didn’t take his eyes from Bellona. ‘This woman and I have not finished introductions yet and, by my calculation, the arrow tip isn’t exceedingly sharp.’
‘It’s sharp enough,’ she said.
‘Miss...’ He blinked. He smiled. But they were just outward movements. ‘Most people get to know me a little better before they think of weapons. Perhaps you should consider that. It might make an attempt on my life more enjoyable for you if there were some justification.’
She never saw his movement, but his hand clamped around her wrist, securing her, not tight, but shackle-strong.
‘My property.’ He stepped back from the arrow. Then he extricated it from her fingers, the warm touch of his hand capturing her in yet another way before he released her. ‘My rules, Huntress.’ He studied her face. ‘Or if my observation is correct, should I refer to you as goddess?’
As he examined the arrow, she took another step back. She gave the merest head toss of dismissal and readied her hand to the single arrow left in the quiver.
His eyes flickered to the sharpened tip of the projectile he held, but he wasn’t truly examining it. He twirled it around, tipped his head to her and held the feathered end to her. ‘I have met the lovely Countess of Warrington and although you resemble her, I would remember if I’d met you. That means you’re the sister named for the goddess of war. The woman hardly ever seen.’
