Heartbreak and Honor Read Free

conviviality.
    The guards carried an enormous key ring. The metal loop wouldn’t fit inside a coat without leaving a noticeable bulge. His grace’s pocket—if he truly was a duke—contained no such telltale lump.
    Mayhap he wasn’t who he claimed. Wary, she adjusted her clasp on her dagger. “How did you get the key to open the door?”
    “I didn’t use a key.” He withdrew a narrow piece of metal from inside his jacket. “I picked the lock.”
    Having never seen a lock pick before, it might have been an oversized toothpick or nail cleaner for all she knew. Tasara gave a short nod. Curious, that—a duke carrying around a lock pick. What other peculiar habits did he have?
    Never mind. She didn’t want to know.
    Strolling to the room’s center, he buttoned his jacket. Several dark blotches marred the fabric and his pantaloons.
    Blood.
    A shudder rippled through her, and she involuntarily sought his sword. Had he killed someone during the rescue?
    Possibly, given the violent nature of her abductors.
    Why would he risk his life for strangers, Highland travellers, to boot?
    Society—principally the snobbish English—never withheld their contempt of the black tinkers, lumping them in the same inferior category as the persecuted Roma. Each a people scorned and shunned worse than lepers because their customs and traditions differed from what Polite Society deemed acceptable.
    “So, why are you here?” Tasara waved her hand in an arc.
    “I had just arrived at Craiglocky to visit my cousin when this disagreeableness began. Miss Ferguson’s brother is a long-standing friend of mine, so naturally, I insisted upon helping.” The duke did wink this time and grinned too, the boyish actions sending her unsteady pulse cavorting again.
    Aye , a ruddy dangerous man, he was indeed. Hazardous to simple, gypsy maidens unused to a rakehell’s practiced wiles.
    “Besides, I’d grown a bit bored.” He struck a dramatic pose. “And what could be more invigorating or honorable than rescuing a beautiful damsel in distress?”
    Comical and glib of tongue too. Slick and sly, like most blue bloods tended to be. However, he’d seen to their freedom, and as such deserved her gratitude. Regardless of her misgivings, a smile tugged one corner of Tasara’s mouth.
    “Damthel in a dreth?” Lala spoke around her thumb while flapping her grungy skirt back and forth. “Me have a dreth.”
    “Indeed you do, fair maiden.” The duke bent low in an exaggerated bow. “And I shall see you safely delivered to your father.”
    Lala smiled, her thumb securely anchored between her small teeth.
    Tasara pulled in a long expanse of air and fought back tears of relief. Their ordeal had finally ended. She’d not been as brave or strong as she would have liked, but she hadn’t crumpled into a worthless, sobbing mass either. Travellers were resilient and sanguine despite their hardships.
    She bent and slid her blade into its sheath inside her boot.
    Harcourt, smooth and silent as a Scottish wildcat, ambled to her. A ray of corridor light bathed his face as he gazed downward.
    Her traitorous heart gave an excited tremor. So different from the shaggy-haired, broad-faced men of her clan.
    Sharp hewn features, high cheekbones, a square jaw, and surprisingly black-lashed eyes and dark eyebrows bespoke his aristocratic heritage, no doubt many generations old. His sculpted mouth spread into a knowing smile, revealing square teeth and a charming dimple in his right cheek.
    She wanted to touch the indentation.
    Verra attractive and verra dangerous, indeed.
    Angelic? Or devilishly handsome? Which better matched the man’s character and personality?
    “What say you, a trifling reward for my efforts? I’d ask for the honor of a waltz, but we’re not likely to have the opportunity. Perhaps a kiss instead?” He dipped his head, his lips mere inches from hers.
    She’d never been kissed.
    “A kiss? Ye canna kiss her.” György’s tone turned belligerent.