But then neither would he smell the smoke of battle or hear the screams of his men dying after losing limbs to a cannonball or split in two on the end of a cutlass. And one man, merely a boy, who’d died in his arms…
Trembling, he shut his eyes on the scene that haunted his dreams every night, taking another deep breath. Blackmore was a world away from his old life, and it was high time he put the past to bed.
The problem was, as Nicholas had come to realize, that was easier said than done.
Wiping his suddenly damp forehead with a kerchief from his pocket, Nicholas went back down the steps and followed the stone crushed path through the formal gardens and out between the hedges, finding himself eventually in the orchard behind thehouse. The trees were in full blossom, and Nicholas wandered slowly through them, remembering times from his childhood when he’d done just this, whether it was to escape his studies or to escape his father.
And Peter.
The thought of his brother caused another wrench in his chest. Forever frozen at fifteen, Peter would never know or face the kind of life Nicholas had experienced. His twin brother lay in a grave instead, and Nicholas had been the one to put him there.
Nicholas pushed away the hurt, setting his jaw.
Peter was dead.
His father was dead.
John was dead.
He was no longer a Captain in the Royal Navy. He was now, God help him, the Duke of Blackmore with all the duties and responsibilities that came with the title. He could almost hear his father’s cold voice lecturing him on loyalty to the family name and the need to produce an heir as quickly as possible.
Unfortunately, that would involve procuring a wife. Something he neither needed nor wanted.
Nicholas stared out over the orchard, leaning against an apple tree as he waited to get his breath back after the unfamiliar exercise. He smiled grimly. At this point in time, he wasn’t even sure he was up to performing the duty necessary to beget an heir. Nevertheless, he would have to find a wife soon and begin the unpleasant task of taking over his father’s estate.
The ship he’d commanded was nothing but a nightmarish memory. One that would, God willing, fade over time. The dukedom was the only thing of importance now.
As he turned to retrace his steps, a motionless shape under a tree in the distance caught his eye, and Nicholas frowned. Was it ananimal or a person?
There was only one way to find out.
Picking his way carefully, Nicholas eventually found himself at the tree in question, completely nonplussed at what he found. A woman was asleep at its base, her skirts spread out over the grass. There was a book resting on her chest, and a stray, russet curl brushed her cheek, the breeze blowing it lightly across her skin.
Whoever the woman was, she clearly had no regard as to who might find her under the tree. Nicholas crouched down, the splinter wounds in his chest protesting as he did so, and gently shook the woman’s shoulder. “Madam.”
She made a sound but did not wake, and he gripped her shoulder harder, shaking it more forcefully. “Madam.”
She jolted awake, and shot up, the top of her head colliding with his chin. Nicholas felt an explosion of pain in his jaw as he reared back, falling flat on his backside on the ground next to her in a most ungentlemanly manner.
“What?” he heard her ask imperiously. “Who the devil are you?”
Rubbing his now injured jaw, Nicholas narrowed his gaze. “More importantly, Madam, who the devil are you, and why are you trespassing on my land?”
Chapter Two
Grace Shackleford stared at the man on the ground beside her, her head still fuzzy from her impromptu nap in the shade of the tree. The orchard was her favourite place to visit in all of Blackmore, and since the old Duke never stepped foot outside of his large house, she’d never felt as if anyone cared that she borrowed one of his trees every now and again.
But this man clearly had an issue with her being here.
Gathering her book, she glared at him. “This is not your land, but the Duke of Blackmore’s.”
He was still rubbing his jaw with his large hand, and a smattering of small scars on the back of his knuckles drew her unwilling attention.
“It is my land. I am the Duke of Blackmore.”
The words sank into Grace’s thoughts. The old Duke had died in his sleep over three months before, and rumours abounded as to when his heir would finally come back and take up his title. “You?”
He didn’t smile. “And you are…?”
