The Duke’s Perfect Wife (MacKenzies & McBrides #4)(37)
Author: Jennifer Ashley

My father must have known I would come after him, because he sent our ghillie ahead and waited for me in an isolated spot. Sure enough, the moment I caught up to him, Father had that shotgun in my face, his finger on the trigger.

I fought him. It was a mad struggle for the gun there in the woods. The barrel seemed to be pointed at me forever, and I knew that if I died this day, my brothers wouldn’t have a chance against him, even with the documents he’d signed. He’d find a way to annul the agreement and make their lives an even greater misery than he had before. And Ian would be dead.

I finally got the shotgun turned around, and now the barrel faced him.

I can lie and tell myself that it was an accident. That I was fighting for the gun and it went off. But I had it in my hands, El. I saw in my mind’s eye, in the split second before I pulled the trigger, the years of terror we’d have to endure if he went on living. Our father was a devious and insane man, and God help us, we inherited our bits of insanity from him. I saw that Ian would never be safe from him, no matter how diligent I was, if I did nothing.

I ended that hell in the woods. I pulled the trigger and shot him in the face.

The ghillie came running, of course. I was holding the gun by the barrel, looking horrified. It had jammed, I said. Backfired when it had gone off.

The ghillie knew, I know he did, but he said that, aye, His Grace must have failed to check that the barrel was clear before he fired at a stray bird. Accidents happened.

And so, the thirteenth Duke of Kilmorgan is gone. My brothers suspect the truth, just as the ghillie did, but they have said nothing, and I have not enlightened them. I vowed in that woods that they would never have to pay for what I’ve done.

Tonight, I confess my sins to you, Eleanor, and to you alone. Tomorrow, Ian comes home. Perhaps the Mackenzies can find some peace, though I doubt it, dear El, because we are so very bad at peace!

Thank you for listening. I can almost hear you saying, in that clearheaded way of yours: “You did what you have done. Let that be an end to it.”

I wish I could hear you say it, in your voice like a soothing stream, but do not worry. I will not rush to Glenarden and throw myself at your feet. You deserve peace as well.

God bless you.

Hart heard a faint sound. He looked up from the letter, tears in his eyes, to see Eleanor standing in the doorway, prim and proper in a dress buttoned to her chin, her lips parted as she stared back at him.

Chapter 11

“You were supposed to burn this,” Hart said. He couldn’t get up, could not move, drained from what he’d just read.

Eleanor closed the door and came to the table littered with the letters. “I couldn’t, somehow.”

He noticed that she did not need to ask which letter he meant. “Why not?”

“I don’t know, really. I suppose, because, of all the people you could have told, you chose to tell me.”

“There was no other person,” Hart said. “No one in the world.”

It hung there. Hart closed the book and stood up, his feet heavy. He needed to touch her. She watched him come to her, said not a word when he cupped her face in his hands and leaned to kiss her.

She tasted of sunshine. Hart didn’t pause to wonder why she’d come upstairs, whether Isabella expected her to rush right back down. Hart only cared that Eleanor was here, that he had the warmth of her under his hands, the woman who knew his direst secrets and had never told a soul.

He felt strong again in her embrace, his hurts flowing away under Eleanor’s caress. He waited for dark needs to grip him, to ruin this moment, but they didn’t come.

He feathered kisses across her cheek, catching the freckles that he held so dear. “El…”

“Shh.” Eleanor pulled him all the way into her arms and rested her head on his shoulder. “Say nothing. There’s nothing to be said.”

Hart pressed a kiss to the top of her head, loving the satin warmth of her hair. His heart was sore, but Eleanor was soothing away the hurt.

“You pasted the photographs into a book,” he said. “A book about me.”

Eleanor raised her head. She caught the look in his eye, and her face flamed as red as her hair. “Well, I…”

Hart felt light as he watched her struggle for an explanation. He saw her go through several, then she grew redder still, and said in a tiny voice, “You are very fine to look at.”

Hart wanted to laugh, mirth being all the brighter after the memories the letters had forced upon him.

Eleanor frowned suddenly, touching his face where the chipped stone had cut him. “What happened?”

“Nothing important. Don’t change the subject.”

Her fingers were soft. “Even marred, you are a handsome man. You must know that.”

Many women had told Hart so, but he’d never let himself wallow in their praise. Riches and position could tinge the perspective, rendering the unpleasant beautiful.

“I don’t want you to keep the photographs Mrs. Palmer took,” he said. “Burn them.”

“Don’t be daft. They’re finely done. And besides, if I grow angry enough at you, I’m sure I could sell them for quite a lot of money.”

Hart lost his smile. “You would do that?”

She pretended to consider. “Perhaps, if you keep telling me not to search certain places for who sent them—or to do anything I please, for that matter.”

Her teasing melted him. “I was right. You are a bold lady. You haven’t changed since you lured me into that boating house.”

“Lured you? I believe I was minding my own business, and you stalked me there.”

“An argument that could last ages. But no matter.” He snatched up the book. “I’ll just burn the entire thing.”

Eleanor lunged for it. “Don’t you dare.”

Hart swung around and headed for the coal stove, its warm glow and Eleanor pumping life back into him.

Eleanor ran after him and grabbed the book, and Hart pretended to wrestle her for it. She knew he pretended, because Hart could have snatched the book out of her hands any moment he wanted to. She yanked, and he released it suddenly, sending her a few scuttling steps back.

She didn’t fall, because Hart steadied her as she teetered on her heels. He ripped the book out of her hands, dumped it to the writing table, and then caught her around the waist and lifted her with ease onto the bed.

Eleanor squirmed against him as he came with her onto the mattress. But she didn’t struggle as much as she perhaps should have, because Hart was laughing.