Page 3 of The Duke's Improper Bride
“We’re in Italy now. Not far out of Cecina.”
Hardly how Isaac wished to spend time in Tuscany.
He was tired of his family’s obligation to the queen. But his father would have been disappointed if Isaac ran away from the responsibility to protect the crown.
Grembly moved toward the door, never turning his back to Isaac. “There’s a chance you might die, Barnes. I’m not here to send you out again, but to see you recovering somewhere safe. You need to get your head straight. This isn’t like you.”
Isaac sucked in a breath, choking back blood as the fever and pain dragged him into darkness.
His response, a single shot into the ceiling. Then Isaac fell back into bed, letting go. It didn’t matter anymore. He had been fished from the ocean, but he might as well have died in that cave.
* * *
Three weekslater
Isaac reckoned he was somewhere in Dante’s fifth level of hell as the carriage bumbled and swayed over the road, conveying him deeper into the heart of the Scottish Highlands.
Grembly sat opposite, his face hidden behind a newspaper. Cigar smoke and the smell of day-old sandwiches cloaked the air. They last spoke in Edinburgh, some four hours back.
“If your plan was to put me out to pasture, you could have at least let me pick the pasture.” Isaac wiped his forehead. His fever returned after it broke on their sail from France to Scotland.
Grembly grunted, turning the page as the carriage veered down a rocky path. Isaac leaned forward, catching his breath at the sharp pang radiating in his chest. Beyond the gentle rise of a hill, tucked near the base of a craggy mountain, sat a lone stone cottage with a thatched roof. Smoke poured out of the chimney.
Isaac sighed, instantly regretting the deep exhale.
There was nothing but a low-lying fog rolling over deep green. Nothing but gray skies and a raw drizzle. Nothing.
“Do you treat everyone who takes a bullet for the crown so well?”
Grembly folded over the corner of the newspaper and arched a brow. “Sometimes I forget you’re a duke, Barnes. And then you complain.”
If he’d felt better, maybe he’d have laughed. Instead, Isaac hauled himself upright on the seat and pressed his hand against the cool window. “What am I to do here?”
“Rest. Recover.”
“For how long?”
“I’m not holding you captive. You could have easily returned to Elmside Castle but I doubt you want staff to see you as you are. Or your mother. A holiday in Italy usually isn’t a near death experience.”
If only Isaac had in fact gone to Italy.
The carriage jerked to a stop. Grembly folded his newspaper, rolled it, and drummed it on his knee before opening the door and hopping down from the carriage. He reached back to assist Isaac, arching an eyebrow, daring him on.
Isaac bit back a slew of profanities. He pulled himself forward and slowly lowered himself to the gravel drive, ignoring Grembly’s outstretched hand.
“You’re damn stubborn.”
“Hmph.”
Isaac grabbed the blasted cane he needed to walk with and limped past Grembly. A large twisted oak guarded the house to the west. Its roots wound through the crooked, mossy stone walls that circled the white stone cottage. Daffodils dotted the gardens, most still half asleep this early in spring. It was bucolic.
“Hmph,” he grumbled again, opening the peeling evergreen door, to reveal a small interior crowded with draped furniture.
“Mrs. White will be by in the morning. She owns the grand house down the road. She’s an old friend, won’t ask questions.”
“Hmm.” Isaac pushed aside the haphazard stacks of books as he wove through the small sitting room. A fire burned at the hearth, and beyond, a plate of food and a bottle of claret sat on a table in the kitchen.
“She’ll be sending her housekeeper by a few times a week,” Grembly said. He selected a book and opened it, running his finger over the pages before slamming it shut.
