A Hint of Wicked Read online

  She had to break free, save Tristan, separate him from the intruder, the lunatic was trying to kill him…

  A crack resonated through the room as another fist smashed against bone. Not Tristan. Please… She writhed, her skin burning where the twisted fabric dug into it, the knots unforgiving.

  More muffled curses and the thump of connecting blows made her struggle harder—she had to get loose, if it meant tearing the bed apart, ripping the fabric… But Tristan had bound her expertly, and no matter how desperately she fought, she couldn’t free herself. A group of figures huddled at the threshold beyond the fighting men. The servants, she realized, most of them holding lanterns. Watching the scene, mouths agape—her naked and tied to the bed, the stranger attempting to kill their master. Oh, Lord, no. This couldn’t be happening. Her shouts faded, the fight in her body drained away. With effort, she focused on Tristan. He had wrenched himself free from the man and was defending himself, now striking at the man’s ribs… his head. His face.

  Sophie froze. His face swam in her vision as her eyes adjusted to the light, blurring and then snapping into focus.

  She knew that man. She knew the way he moved, knew the shape of him. She knew the broad cheekbones and the stormy look in his blue eyes.

  It was her dead husband.

  It was Garrett.

  Chapter Two

  Somewhere deep in Tristan’s consciousness it registered that a dead man had dragged him away from his wife and was attempting to beat the hell out of him. The intensity of the shock and surprise sweeping through him didn’t seem to matter, though. Fighting Garrett came as naturally as it always had. Light flooded the room and Sophie’s protests faded into the background. Tristan squinted at his assailant. Garrett looked somewhat the worse for wear, but he was as wide and imposing as ever. A cracking jolt speared through Tristan’s knuckles and up his arm as one of his jabs glanced off Garrett’s ribs, and something nudged at the edge of his mind. Why hadn’t Sophie broken them up? Whenever they fought, she came between them, and in her calming way, always made them stop.Then he remembered why she didn’t intervene. And… oh, hell…

  He took a precious moment to glance at his wife, confirming the worst. Still bound to their bed, her exposed body shimmered in the lamplight, the dark bruise on her thigh a stark contrast to her pale skin. She lay limp and unmoving, her glazed eyes fixed upon Garrett. In the instant it took for Tristan to process that information, Garrett’s fist slammed against his cheek. Tristan went reeling, pain ripping through his face. The hit propelled him toward Sophie, and he lunged for the bed.

  “Sophie!” He wrenched the twisted counterpane from beneath her legs and tossed it over her body.

  Garrett grabbed his shoulder and yanked him around, his blue eyes swirling with violence.

  “Bastard.”

  Sophie’s voice, calm and clear, cut through the battle haze. “Stop it.”

  He blinked and watched Garrett do the same. But Garrett shook it off, raised a bunched fist, and aimed for Tristan’s nose.

  As the punch shot forward, Tristan ducked and leveled two quick strikes at Garrett’s abdomen. It was like connecting with steel, though he was mollified to hear Garrett release his breath in pained gasps as the blows connected.

  The big man’s jabs came in rapid fire, but Tristan, always the faster, ducked away. As he leveled another solid blow at Garrett’s gut, Sophie gave a desperate shout. “Tom, please restrain my husband!”

  The burly groom rushed toward them. He yanked Garrett’s arms behind him, dragging him backward over the carpet. Garrett twisted from Tom’s grip, but another man, a dark-haired gentleman Tristan had never seen before, joined Tom, and together they managed to restrain him.

  Her husband. Garrett was her husband.

  Tristan ground his teeth so hard his jaw hurt. His heart tightened in his chest, balling into a heavy lump as the gravity of the situation barreled through him. Good God.

  “Garrett…” Sophie whispered.

  Garrett finally tore his focus from Tristan. He stopped struggling the instant his gaze met hers. “Sophie?”

  The way he looked at her, as if she were his only hope for salvation in a world of madness, made Tristan tense and ready for battle all over again. Sophie returned that look, her expression full of all the pain of the past years. Overwhelming all the other emotions was joy. Tears pooled in her eyes, and she smiled, mouthing, Garrett, Garrett, Garrett. As a cloud of dread settled over him, Tristan caught a glimpse of a wool throw on the edge of the bed. He grabbed it and wrapped it around his naked waist.

  “What are you—why is he here?” Garrett’s tone was deeper and more gravelly than Tristan remembered. He stood frozen in place, looking from Sophie to Tristan and back again.

  “What are you doing, Sophie? Did he hurt you? You’re bruised—” Despite the low timbre of Garrett’s voice, Tristan recognized a hint of uncertainty on its fringes. With a little toss of her head, Sophie seemed to fling away the cobwebs and regain some composure. “Of course he didn’t hurt me.” Still staring at Garrett, she took in a shaky gulp of a breath. Her gaze flickered to the servants, then to Tristan. “Untie me, please.”

  Tristan glanced at the crowd standing on the threshold. Several maidservants, Sophie’s lady’s maid, Delia, the housekeeper, Mrs. Krum, and the butler, Connor, were gathered there, still as death, gawking at the drama unfolding before them. Tristan gave the butler a pointed look. “I do not doubt your discretion, Connor. Please remind the others of theirs. We’ll discuss this in the morning.”

  Connor snapped to attention. “Of course, Your Grace.” With a firm nod, he bustled the servants out. Only Tom, Garrett, and the stranger remained. Ignoring them, Tristan climbed to the edge of the bed to release his wife’s wrists. When her hands were free, she sat up, pulled the heavy counterpane to her chin, and quietly worked on one ankle while he focused on the other.

  Everyone seemed frozen in place, watching in silence. Their presence was unnerving. Overwhelming. Panic threatened to consume Tristan as thoughts jumped around in his head like cricket balls bouncing against his skull.

  Sophie would leave him now. He was going to lose her. She had always belonged to Garrett.

  Taking Sophie’s lead, he focused on untying the knot and regulating his breaths. As he did so, a grim determination overtook him. He wouldn’t let her go. Not this time. When she was loose, Sophie glanced at Garrett, her expression seemingly normal—cool and duchesslike. “Tristan and I will dress and meet you in the drawing room.”

  “No,” Garrett said, his voice flat. “I’m not leaving you alone with him.”

  Tristan started to tell Garrett to go to the devil, but his wife’s gentle hand on his arm restrained him.

  “Very well. Garrett, you may stay. Tom, you’ll escort Mr.… ?” Sophie raised an eyebrow at the stranger, who bowed, his youthful round face unreadable.

  “William Fisk. At your service, Your Grace.”

  Sophie nodded. “A pleasure, Mr. Fisk. However, under the circumstances…”

  “Of course.” Fisk nodded gravely, his doelike brown eyes solemn. Hysterical laughter bubbled up from Tristan’s gut. Under the circumstances, indeed. The pleasantries of society had long since been dispensed with tonight, and yet Sophie retained her practical demeanor. She hardly wavered, despite having just been discovered tied to a bed being taken savagely by her husband. Despite discovering her deceased first husband was, in fact, alive. By now, any other woman would require resuscitation. Tristan tamped down the mad desire to laugh and distracted himself by gathering clothing from the floor.

  “Tom will escort you to the drawing room, Mr. Fisk,” Sophie said politely, but the command in her tone was unmistakable.

  Fisk bowed again, his manners impeccable and at odds with this ridiculous situation.

  “Thank you, Your Grace.”

  When the door closed behind them, Sophie turned to Garrett. He focused on her, fixated, his jaw ticking as if he were on the verge of exploding a
gain. It was just the three of them, Tristan realized. As it had been when they were children. The three of them against the world. Garrett, the eldest and strongest, whom Tristan and Sophie looked to for protection. Tristan, adventurous and impetuous, always using charm to wheedle them out of trouble. Sophie, quiet and wise, though she was younger than Tristan by over a year and four years younger than Garrett. She was the capable one, the peacekeeper, but she was also the idealist. The dreamer. The little girl who’d taught two motherless, unloved boys how to be happy and carefree.

  Things had changed. Tristan and Sophie had learned to get by without Garrett’s protection. They’d developed strength of their own. He had abandoned them to their own devices, and they had survived… and ultimately prospered. Together.

  Now, instead of the three of them against the world, it was the three of them against one another. When Garrett looked at Tristan, his eyes weren’t filled with protective affection or brotherly love. Instead they were replete with disgust. Anger. Hatred so strong, it dug like a knife into Tristan’s chest.

  Now that the servants and Fisk had gone, vulnerability flooded Sophie’s expression, and Tristan felt her emotions as strongly as if he were experiencing them himself. He could see the questions swimming in her hazel eyes, which had taken on the bronze quality of the light of a lantern left by the servants. Where were you? Why did you come back? Why did you leave us for so long?

  “Garrett…” Her lower lip trembled. The blanket slipped, baring a perfect, white shoulder, and Tristan stepped between them to cover her. He’d be damned if Garrett would see any more of her bare skin. She didn’t even look at Tristan. Her shining gaze focused solely on Garrett.

  Keeping her covered, Tristan helped her out of the bed, feeling her legs tremble as they brushed against him.

  She wanted to go to Garrett. Her desire to touch him was nearly palpable. Yet she didn’t. She didn’t move. Perhaps because Tristan was standing between the two of them. Perhaps he should move aside and see what happened. But no way in hell would he give either of them the opportunity.

  He looked over his shoulder, eyes narrowed. “Allow us to dress, if you please.”

  Garrett gave a jerk of a nod, crossed his arms over his chest, and turned to stare broodingly at the fire.

  Tristan met Sophie’s gaze briefly before she pulled away. Blood roared through his veins at her expression of confusion.

  She pulled the blanket tightly around her, took the candle from the bedside table, and headed for the door to the adjoining room. As she passed the fire, she stopped and turned. For a long moment, she stared at Garrett, simply stared at him, her lips parted. He stared back at her, his gaze stormy, hot, intense. Tristan felt like an intruder, an outsider to the private, personal moment shared between lovers.

  Finally Sophie turned and padded on bare feet across the carpet, her pale feet and calves flashing beneath the dark blanket. Irrationally, Tristan glanced around in search of shoes, or anything to cover the alluring turn of her ankle. Garrett studied her every move, looking away only when the door to her dressing room snapped shut.

  Tristan yanked on his now-wrinkled trousers and shirt, making no attempt to smooth them. Garrett didn’t glance in his direction but stood as stiff and impenetrable as an iceberg, staring at the hearth. The coals had grown cold along with Garrett’s arctic presence, and a chill settled deep in Tristan’s bones.

  He found his waistcoat on the floor on the far side of the bed near the foot post where the gold trim of the bed curtains skimmed the burgundy carpet. Pushing his arms through the openings, he glanced at his cravat lying in disarray on the sheet but decided against wearing it. Instead he thrust his feet into his shoes, crossed his arms, and stood on guard by Sophie’s dressing room door.

  He studied Garrett, who stared at the fire as if by his gaze alone he could force the coals to explode into flame. Beneath his heavy black overcoat, the man’s broad shoulders were tense—clearly he felt Tristan’s eyes on him. Still, he didn’t say a word. A large scar blazed red above the old hairline scar through his left eyebrow. Tristan couldn’t have been over six years old when Garrett injured himself that first time, but he remembered it vividly. His parents had just died and his uncle, Garrett’s father, had brought him to live at Calton House, where he and Garrett had become fast friends and close companions. On that particular spring day, they were racing in the meadows. Garrett was winning, but then he’d tripped on a branch and fallen headfirst into a pile of rocks. Garrett’s head had gushed bright red blood, and Tristan had panicked, certain he was dead. He remembered the intense relief that flooded through him when Garrett had cracked open his eyes. The fall had left a permanent white line running from just over the bridge of Garrett’s nose through his eyebrow.

  The new scar was different—bigger, twisted, a glaring knot on his forehead. It drew attention to itself as the older wound never had. In conjunction with Garrett’s tangled shoulder-length blond hair, it made him look wild and feral, more like a savage lion than the well-bred Colonel Garrett James, Duke of Calton.

  How was this possible? How could Garrett be alive, after all the effort they had made to find him? Where had he been all this time? Above all, why the hell had he come back now?

  Just as he opened his mouth to voice the questions, Sophie entered from her dressing room, and Garrett’s attention riveted to her. Without the help of a maid, she had dressed herself in a white muslin gown, combed her honey-colored hair, and twisted it at her nape. She wore a soft pink Pashmina shawl over her shoulders. Pride swelled in Tristan’s chest. She looked every bit the Duchess of Calton.

  Sophie’s gaze moved slowly from one man to the other. “Garrett… ?”

  The man stiffened further, then turned away. “We will adjourn to the drawing room.”

  She took a step toward him and reached out her hand to stop him. “Please. Tell me what—

  why—how—?”

  Garrett bowed stiffly and motioned toward the door. “After you, Your Grace.”

  Sophie blinked away some strong emotion, straightened her shoulders, and inclined her head. “We thought you were never coming home. We were certain you were dead. How is it that you’re here?”

  Garrett’s lips tightened. “In the drawing room. If you please.” The words came out in a low growl through his clenched jaw.

  “You will not speak to Sophie in that tone of voice.” Tristan took a menacing step toward Garrett, but he swiveled away and stomped toward the door.

  Sophie’s hand closed over Tristan’s sleeve. “It’s all right.”

  Grinding his teeth, Tristan stared down at her.

  She nodded in Garrett’s direction, then followed him out the door. With conflicting emotions swirling in his chest, Tristan kept by her side as they walked to the drawing room.

  Tom had lit the chandelier and the candles set in the gold-plated wall sconces, and the room was blazing. Light danced off the polished green leaves of the potted palms in the corners, and glistened along the gold trim of the wainscoting. As Garrett entered, followed by Sophie and Tristan, the young groom stirred the coals in the fireplace. Fisk stepped forward and bowed as they filed in.

  “Your Graces.”

  Tristan quickly masked the falter in his step. As Garrett’s trustee and heir, he had been responsible for all of Garrett’s affairs after his disappearance. He’d officially assumed the title and the duties of the Duke of Calton less than a year ago. Now he would be forced to give it all up. Nobody would deny Garrett was the legal Duke of Calton. Not that it mattered, ultimately. Tristan had never lusted after anything of Garrett’s.

  Except his wife.

  Tristan had loved Sophie since they were children. He’d kept his secret longing to himself since his school days at Eton when Garrett had told him of his intention to marry her. Out of loyalty to his friend, Tristan had valiantly buried his desire for her and married Nancy, a cheerful lady whose disposition seemed compatible with his. She was a good woman, and he’d even loved h
er. But she wasn’t Sophie.

  Finally, six years after Garrett disappeared from the field and four years after Nancy’s death, Tristan revealed his feelings to Sophie. And she reciprocated. This time would be different. He wouldn’t give her up so easily—hell, he wouldn’t give her up at all. He’d be damned if he’d martyr himself for his cousin again. Garrett had abandoned them both, and Tristan no longer owed him anything, least of all his heart. Now Sophie stood before him, the small tremors running down her spine invisible to the untrained eye. Tristan wanted nothing more than to hold her, to comfort her. To protect her. But he restrained himself. She wouldn’t want him to coddle her. Sophie passed Garrett and went to sit on one of the palm-print sofas. Garrett lowered himself beside her. She kept her eyes cast downward, but her skin was as pale as Tristan had ever seen it. Her hands clenched and relaxed over and over in her lap, belying her attempt to appear calm.

  Tristan flicked his gaze back to Garrett, who stared at Sophie hungrily. The brazenness of his expression made Tristan’s gut twist with possessive fury, but he refused to allow the emotion to consume him. Instead, keeping his face blank, he sat on the chair facing them. It was said that when he wasn’t busy charming the opposition, he possessed the most impassive expression in all of Parliament. He intended to make use of that expression tonight.