Free Never Deceive a Duke by Liz Carlyle Page B

interior rampart was steeped in shadow.
    He peered higher, toward the sky. The rain was coming in sheets now, but with less ferocity, perhaps. Another bolt of lightning lit the sky, illuminating the house. Gareth’s gaze swept the curtain wall again. He had glimpsed something on the rampart. Motion? Light? Both, he thought. Another flash, this one more distant.
    This time, he saw her clearly. A woman in white. She was pacing like some ghostly specter, her white-draped arms lifted heavenward. Good God, was she begging to die? Again the sky lit, bathing her in pale, otherworldly light. She seemed oblivious to the nearing storm. Gareth had both slippers on before he knew what he meant to do.
    Later, of course, he realized that he should have summoned a servant. It would have saved him a pair of wet slippers and a vast amount of angst. But in the press of the moment, he rushed headlong down the twisting passageways, and up and down the stairs which led from one section of the house to another, and all the while praying he remembered how to find his way onto the wall. Surely he did? He and Cyril had played in the towers as children, battling one another up and down the spiral staircases.
    Suddenly, he saw it. An arched wooden doorway banded with iron and set at an odd angle in the wall. He pushed through into the bastion’s circular room. The stairs were just beyond. He went up half a flight and saw the next door, a narrow, planked affair. It gave onto the curtain wall. But the damned door was stuck.
    With a mighty blow, Gareth shouldered his way through. The door swung into the gloom on squalling hinges. On the rampart beyond, the woman was still pacing, her back turned to him. Again the horizon lit, throwing the east bastion ahead into stark relief. But he had no need to see her face. He knew at once who she was; he had known it, perhaps, from the first.
    “Your Grace!” His words barely carried over the roar of the rain. “Antonia! Stop! ”
    She did not hear him. Gingerly, he approached, heedless of the puddles. Tension seemed to radiate from her body. Her pale blond hair hung below her waist, sodden from the rain. She looked shockingly thin and small.
    “Antonia?” he said softly.
    When he touched her shoulder, she turned without alarm and looked—well, not at him, but through him. It was utterly unnerving, especially when he realized she wore nothing but a sheer muslin nightgown which was now plastered to a pair of exquisite breasts.
    He forced his gaze to her face. “Antonia,” he said quietly, “what are you doing out here?”
    She pulled away, dragging a hand through her wet hair. “Beatrice,” she murmured, not looking at him. “The carriage—do you hear it?”
    Gareth grasped her forearm in a gentle but uncompromising grip. “Who is Beatrice?” he asked over the racket of the rain.
    “It’s late,” she rasped. “Surely…surely that must be them?”
    “Antonia, get inside! No one is coming tonight.”
    Obviously agitated, she shook her head. “The children, the children,” she muttered. “I must wait.”
    She was sleepwalking. Or a little mad, perhaps? Certainly she did not know where she was. Damn it, he had to get her off this bloody wall. A bolt of lightning was apt to strike them both dead. “Come inside, Antonia,” he said, tugging on her arm. “I insist.”
    “No!” Her voice was panicked. “No, I cannot leave!” She jerked away, forcing him to lunge for her.
    She fought at him like a little hellcat then, striking out with both hands, clawing and struggling to throw off his grasp. Again, she escaped, and this time, he captured her against him, banding her to him with one arm, trying not to hurt her as she flailed. But Antonia’s body was lithe and surprisingly strong—and surprisingly lush, too, God help him. For what seemed an eternity he fought her as she twisted, writhed, and struck at him, high on the rampart, with the storm drawing ever nearer, and nothing but the low