Page 5 of Her Tempestuous Duke

Fortunately, she had no fear of dogs. When she’d lived in the royal household at Naples, there had been dozens of them—lap dogs, hunting dogs, and dogs small enough to hide up one’s sleeve. Lord Anthony kept several lurchers and a couple of spaniels, but nothing so huge as a wolfhound. She adored animals and didn’t mind being licked—the dog was more friendly than its master.

She gazed around, hoping to see the village or the castle, but the top of the cliff was little more comforting than its foot. The island—or promontory, or whatever it was—was steeply mounded in the middle, with dark ruinous buildings at the highest point. Most of the land was covered with short, pale grasses and the stubby skeletons of last summer’s heather. There was, however, a terrace that had been worked to provide beds for herbs and vegetables.

Another terrace was covered with strangely shaped buildings that looked like stone beehives. Some had empty, dark doorways, making her think of tomb openings. A couple boasted slatted doors, the wood scoured by sea winds and laced with a labyrinth of beetle activity.

“Come.”

The man who wanted to be called Prospero held out his hand. She wobbled to her feet and found that the grass was full of spikes and prickles but turned her face away so he wouldn’t read her thoughts again. That was positively the last time she would ride anywhere on a man’s back!

“Go in and sit by the fire. There’s bread and cheese, and wild onions today. The well water is always good.” He glanced toward the ruins.

Her heart sank still further. So that wrecked stonework was the castle?

“The monks who were here in the beginning and the castle builders who came after them chose a good spot but it meant they had to dig a well of inestimable depth. Stay away from it—there’s no power on earth that could get you out if you fell in. Besides which, it would poison the water supply.”

She glanced at him. Was he teasing, or was he in earnest? But that didn’t matter now.

“I’ll eat outside if you don’t mind, and then we can start looking for my companions.” That lofty castle gateway, those ruined but still imposing walls, screamed prison at her. She refused to go inside until she had a much better idea of what, and with whom, she was dealing.

“Suit yourself.” He disappeared, and she wandered around a little until her chilled and injured feet forced her to return to the castle gate.

A wooden platter awaited her, bearing a hunk of bread and a slice of cheese. The mug containing the water was a rough, red earthenware, common to many country kitchens across the west of England. She settled in a corner out of the wind and ate her fill.

It was amazing how much better she felt with some food inside her. The crashing sounds of the angry sea subsided, and the memory of that terrifying moment when she thought her last hour had come was pushed to one side. Dusk had softened the outlines of the castle, making the ruined walls less menacing.

Her meal completed, and with no sign of her rescuer returning, Minerva braved the castle gateway but did no more than peer within. It seemed wrong to penetrate any further without the company of her host. She’d been raised to be a paragon of politeness, and even though her current situation was extraordinary, she still clung to the modes and manners that had served her until now.

But the beehive huts were no one’s home. It would do no harm for her to explore, would it? She must at least keep moving, lest the cold claim her. Perhaps the huts were used as storerooms—she could look for a pair of shoes because, without them, she was virtually a prisoner on the island. She had no desire to cut her feet to ribbons on rocks.

She padded across the grass, moving swiftly past the dark, yawning maws of the doorless huts. One had swathes of dried plants suspended from the roof and was filled with a motley collection of bottles, jars, and cutting tools—it looked like the workshop of some medieval alchemist or apothecary. She hurried past and made for the most distant building, which seemed to have been kept in a better state of repair. Perhaps this was the storeroom she was hoping for.

A simple hook and loop held the door in place. She lifted the hook, but the door resisted her pressure. It must be stiff with age and the salty damp from the sea so, despite it being unladylike, she applied her shoulder to the wood and shoved.

The door swung open, and Minerva blinked until her eyes got used to the shadows. It was a very small space, providing just enough room for one person to lie down in. Would there have been a fire in here? She hoped so—it would be grim without one.

She was able to make out a miniature portrait fixed to the wall. Moving closer, she discovered that it was of a woman sporting one of the high, complicated wigs that had been so popular in the previous century. Her costume was of that century, too, with the low, square neckline, the extravagant fall of lace at the cuffs, and the cinched-in waist.

A wooden box was placed in front of the picture. A drying spray of late-blooming heather had been placed upon it, like an offering on a pagan altar. There was a coin purse, too, embroidered and much faded, and a beautifully worked handkerchief, bearing the initials PP.

She was about to examine the handkerchief more closely when a shadow filled the doorway, plunging the cell into darkness.

“What do you mean by spying on me? Is this how you reward me for saving you from the sea? I’ve a good mind to throw you off the clifftop.”

The low hiss of his anger and the menacingly soft tone of his voice were more effective than if he had shouted at her.

She quivered. “I am so, so sorry.” She had no idea that she was doing any harm, but this was clearly a private place, and she should have trusted her instinct and left well alone.

He stepped away, and she hurried outside, not daring to look at his face.

The door crashed back into place, making her wince, and she rubbed her hands over her arms as goose-pimples exploded on her skin. His gaze was like a stab of ice. She’d inadvertently broken his trust—little wonder he was furious. She bent her head and heard him draw in a breath.

“I found one survivor—I’ve brought him up with me. The others you spoke of must have perished.” There was a pause. “I’m sorry.”

Only one survivor? Lord help her! And Lord help the souls of those poor wretches who had perished at sea.

It had to be Lord Anthony, her guardian. He must be the one who had survived. Because if it was not, what on earth was going to happen to her?

Chapter Four