Thorn, Son of a Duke Read online

  Table of Contents

  Excerpt

  Praise for Sandra Masters

  Thorn, Son of a Duke

  Copyright

  Dedications

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  “Be careful what you wish for, Alicia.

  You should not trifle with a man’s desires. You are inexperienced in that regard. They can scorch you. Don’t be a foolish young lady.”

  “May I remind you that you are not my guardian? You are more like a close relative to me though we aren’t related. Won’t you teach me how to kiss so I can know whether the gentleman is kissing me because he’s passionately in love with me—or with my dowry?”

  “You’re asking a rogue to teach you intimacies that only a husband should know?”

  He turned to her, engaged her eyes, and she saw a different look on his face. Alicia could not describe how he made her feel. Her knees weakened, her pulse raced. Something wonderful coursed down to her toes. Grateful to be sitting, she looked him straight in the eye.

  He grinned as if in thought.

  “You aren’t a rogue.” She raised her head, and with an obvious tenderness, cupped his face. “But if you are, you are my special rogue. Please kiss me.” Her lips found his and for a moment, her world stood still when he entered her open mouth and his tongue mated with hers. Sweet heaven.

  Praise for Sandra Masters

  “I so enjoyed ONCE UPON A DUKE. The author’s clever, witty repartee pulled me into the story and made me root for these two dynamic characters. A delightful debut novel!”

  ~Debra Salonen, bestselling author of Montana Cowboy

  ~*~

  “[The author’s] characters are worthy and the plot is creative and interesting. You have the story teller’s gift of hinting at disaster ahead which made me keep turning the pages.”

  ~Sarah Richmond, author of Mexican Sage

  Thorn,

  Son of a Duke

  by

  Sandra Masters

  The Duke Series

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  Thorn, Son of a Duke

  COPYRIGHT © 2016 by Sandra Masters

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Contact Information: [email protected]

  Cover Art by Debbie Taylor

  The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  PO Box 708

  Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

  Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

  Publishing History

  First Tea Rose Edition, 2016

  Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-0571-4

  The Duke Series

  Published in the United States of America

  Dedications

  To my plotster husband, Ron,

  for our endless conversations

  about characterization and plots.

  ~*~

  To my beta reader, Julie Eltsner and Karen L. Varner,

  for their generosity of spirit.

  ~*~

  Most of all, to my editor, Cindy Davis,

  without whose encouragement

  my books would not be in print.

  Especially, for her patience and endurance

  to my endless questions.

  ~*~

  To the many professionals who work behind the scenes.

  ~*~

  To my exceptional readers

  for their continuing support.

  Without you, I could not be here.

  Chapter One

  Aboard His Majesty’s Clipper Ship en route to England, 1817

  Thorn Wick leaned over the railing of the ship. A queasy sensation roiled in his stomach as he watched the swelling of the seas. He closed his eyes and hoped he’d wake up and find himself in his sunlit room in Barbados on firm ground listening to island chants.

  The ship heaved and pounded against the waves as it lunged forward making it difficult to keep his balance. The deck bounced as the ship rolled. Storm clouds menaced close by. He preferred to be starboard—a term he just learned—so he could breathe the tang of salt air, and if necessary, spill his guts over the side. Although it was a distinct possibility it would reverse its direction and soil his newly purchased clothes. Schools of manatees swam by in graceful motion.

  He recalled when he was at his mother’s bedside and she made him promise to go and live with his father. It was the first time she’d mentioned him in more than a passing comment.

  She’d said, “Thorn, I am dying. It will make it easier for me if I knew you and your birth father were together. We were much taken with each other. I know he loved me and we spent glorious moments together, until he contracted malaria and became so ill, his fever raged out of control and his words were wild and incoherent. He was torn from me when it was determined he was close to death. They placed him on the ship headed for England, and we never knew if he’d arrive alive or dead. Later you were born.”

  “Mother,” he’d asked, “what good will it do? I can make my way here. I refuse to believe you’re at death’s door. You’re too young.” His eyes blurred and glistened.

  “Son, I am not so foolish as to think I will survive this malady. It came on slowly and has sucked my strength minute by minute. Please listen to me.”

  “Mother”—he held her hand tightly—“I need you. Don’t leave me alone. Haven’t I provided for you?”

  “Thorn, you’ve been the best son a mother could wish for. Now, I’d like you to meet your father. In many ways, you are nobler than you think. The barrister in town has a letter that I want sent to the man who fathered you to let him know he has a strong, handsome son who bears his blue eyes and regal bearing.

  “No, I don’t want to go. My life is here on this island with you. I can take care of both of us now.”

  His mother raised herself from the bed and reached for him, touched his cheek, and gave him a faint smile, the perspiration on her body soaking her nightgown. “Thorn, promise you will see Mr. Morton Jones and ask to have the letter delivered by messenger. Funds have been provided. The Duke of Althorn is a prominent man and he will assure you grow up in the environment you deserve.”

  “I’m the son of an English Duke? What does that mean for me? I’ve never heard of him.” It was the first time she’d ever mentioned his father’s full name. Thorn moved to her bedside and cradled her to him, allowing unmanly tears to fall. He rocked her in his arms, closed his eyes, and prayed she wouldn’t leave him. He was hers to love, and she was generous in that regard. Her beauty waned with the illness, but he still thought her lovely.

  “Promise me, Thorn. I can go my death in peace if I know you will have a good and prosperous life…that you were not just a mistake. You have not realized your full potential. You are more mature than your seventeen years, but it is time the Duke knows of you.” She looked into his blue eyes, cupped his face, and exhaled slowly, each word more stressed than the previous.

  “I promise, Mother. I promise. At least I will try my best because I will always love you.”

  At his words, her face relaxed into a serene
expression. She was gone to meet her maker.

  “No, no, no!”

  Thorn Wick, born in one world, was about to enter the new one of his father’s as a bastard son. He wasn’t sure where he belonged. One foot was embedded in the island of Barbados he’d come to love despite the bullying of boys his age. He was skeptical about the other foot since he didn’t know what to expect of the Duke of Althorn.

  It was his mother’s dying wish he be allowed to live with his father who never knew of his birth until seventeen years after the fact. Thorn was told the Duke already had a seven-year-old son and heir.

  Sir Tomas Martinez, his father’s friend, came to transport him and informed him of the hierarchy. Simply put, Thorn had a half-brother, a stepmother, and a grandmother.

  The sun glowed on his swarthy skin. His black hair shined with blue tints like his father’s, he was told. Eyes the color of Delft china were a replica of the Duke’s. At the age of eleven years, his mother arranged for the witch doctor to ink him with a replica of the Duke’s tattoo. His mother kept a copy of it in her private journal.

  Thorn remembered the pain when the needle perforated his glistening skin and the hours he had to still himself without movement. Old Kondo could be fierce if his artistry was disturbed. As a young boy, he asked why it was necessary and was told by his mother he needed the protection of his ancestors who were of the Lion Clan. Evil would not follow him, Thorn was assured.

  His was not a simple life. Considered a half-breed by the natives and the Caucasians, he had to fight the bullies until they recognized he would suffer no umbrage. They left him alone—most of the time. He’d earned their respect with his fists and his knife.

  He made a point to remember Tomas should be addressed as Sir Martinez when they were in public.

  The English tailor in Barbados had fitted Thorn with London-styled tailcoats with double-breasted lapels worn open. A waistcoat was made from linen in a brocade fabric. Two cotton shirts were provided, long and loose fitted with off the shoulder sleeves and a high collar that scratched his neck. The shirt was mid-thigh and served as the only undergarment. As a young man, he was fitted with breeches and riding boots. The cravat cloth further aggravated, and he remembered his words to the tailor, that the fashion was a foolish circumstance since it had to be wrapped around the throat a few times. Thorn preferred his lightweight native clothing. However, he was used to tight fitting breeches and fine riding boots since one of his duties was to exercise the Akhal-Teke horses for wealthy plantation owner, Sir Donegal. It was at those times that he became at peace with himself. They weren’t just horses, but those of special breeding and distinguishing features. His special advantage was that he knew almost everything about the prime horses of the acclaimed breed.

  Thorn squinted at the bright sun while salt water whipped his face. “Sir Tomas, how much longer do we have? We have been on the water for three weeks already.”

  His English was impeccable since his mother arranged for him to be schooled by the missionaries on the island. He was very well read, could write, cipher, and had a superb knowledge of mathematics. “I would venture to guess we have two more weeks. The good news is that the channel weather gets better as we near the Straits of Dover—the most beautiful sight in the world to an Englishman—so the nausea should subside.”

  “What of this England where my father lives? What is the weather like there?”

  “This time of year, it is cold and damp. I should have thought to order you a woolen coat.”

  “Wool?” the young man questioned. “We never wear wool in Barbados.”

  “You’ll be glad you have such a cloth in England.” Tomas laughed. “Come now, my boy, let’s sit in the salon out of the wind. It might help you feel better.”

  Thorn was too quick to reply, “I would hope you recognize that I am a man, not a boy.” He held Tomas’ eyes with his fierce ones.

  “Yes, Thorn, I should have taken note of that circumstance. In our colloquial language, it is also a word of endearment.”

  Thorn followed Tomas to the double doors that opened to the salon. They sat at a table. Around them were a number of people at the long polished mahogany bar, all in quiet conversations. Tables, chairs, and portholes with swaying lamps added dimension to the large room. Somehow the pendulum swings did not cause him an upset stomach.

  “I’ll be ordering a brandy. What will be your beverage of choice?” Tomas asked

  “I do not have a taste for strange spirits, sir. I prefer dark coffee and darker rum. Coffee will do.” He gave a tentative smile, elbow on the table, fingers under his chin.

  An attendant was hailed to place an order. “Thorn. Something to eat? Bread perhaps? A savory piece of shepherd’s pie?”

  “I have never fancied English food, Sir Tomas. I like the spices of the Caribbean.” He smiled widely for the first time. “My mother could cook a piece of goat and make it taste like food for the gods.”

  “What is your religion?” Tomas asked.

  “My mother insisted on the Church of England. It is where I was baptized.”

  The waiter arrived with their brandy and black coffee. “Tell me about my father. What is he like? Will he reject me?” Thorn softened his tone.

  Tomas took a large swig of the brandy. Thorn was still gauging his body’s reaction and didn’t want to embarrass anyone by releasing the contents of his stomach.

  Beside him, the Spaniard flexed his shoulders. “Your father’s title is Duke of Althorn. He is Gordon Sedgewick, the Eighth Duke. That’s probably where your mother got the name of Wick. I can only tell you he is one of the finest friends a man could have.” He paused, then added, “I know what you’re going through. I was there, too. A fish out of water, not knowing whom I could trust.”

  “You do not appear to have suffered much, sir. I see before me a prosperous man.”

  Thorn glanced at the man from head to polished boot. “You like English boots. I prefer the Caribbean leathers.”

  “When I met your father at the university, I couldn’t afford any kind. We happened to have the same size shoe, so he gifted me with his brand new pair. That’s the kind of man he is.” Tomas ordered another brandy. “Ready for more coffee? A sweet piece of pie?”

  Thorn shook his head; he didn’t want to tempt fate with more coffee. “Sir Tomas, how long did you say you resided in Barbados when you first came?”

  “About four months.”

  “Just enough time to get a taste of our food?”

  “Yes, my favorite was cou cou, corn meal and okra.”

  Thorn smiled. “I especially like conkies. It is a favorite treat. Coconut, pumpkin, flour, sweet potato, and sugar wrapped in fresh banana leaves.” The thought of his beloved island rained over him. He closed his eyes for a moment and then relaxed. “What does my father look like?” he asked.

  “Very much like you, but with a lighter skin color. You both have the same eyes. I’d know you anywhere in the world.” Tomas tilted his head back and around as if flexing out the kinks. “I am getting tired. Thorn, I need you to understand I am your friend. I will be as good a one to you as your father was to me.”

  Thorn frowned. “Why did not my father come for me himself?”

  “So I’m not good enough for you, young man?” he joked, but leaned forward to speak. “Your father contracted malaria after his visit here. He almost died. You might have heard Europeans are susceptible to the disease? He’s had a number of relapses. Best all around to send me since I’m so charming.” He guffawed.

  “Sir Tomas, you have a sense of humor.” Thorn felt the corners of his mouth curl. “I do believe you are also a man to be trusted on such an expedition. How could you be sure I would come with you?”

  “I wasn’t. You are a clever young man. Behind those eyes, I see a story one day you may want to tell us.”

  “Good stories are not always told. It is all about the sentiment. I admit to a curiosity in seeing the man who helped give me life. If I do not like the situ
ation, I will find a way to leave.”

  “I doubt anyone would want to hold you by force, but just let me say, your father is attending sessions in our English Parliament. He has important work to accomplish.”

  “Do you suggest, sir, I’m not important?” He arched his brow.

  “Hell’s bells, Thorn. Where did you get that impression? You are quick to take offense when none is intended. The English are different than what you’ve seen on the island. They have a special aristocratic arrogance they’re proud of and want the world to know it.”

  Thorn grew pensive for a moment, cracked his knuckles, then flexed them. “Does my father own horses?”

  “Yes, fine English stock. Bays, chestnuts, thoroughbreds, but no Arabians any more. Your father knows more about his horses than I do. All I know is that most of them are in the General Stud Book.”

  “Arabians are far overrated,” Thorn said. “Once you have seen an Akhal-Teke, all others pale in comparison to their beauty and breeding.”

  Thorn leaned forward and tapped his finger on the table listening with interest.

  “His Eastern horses have a bit of the blood in them.”

  “The phrase means?” He wrinkled his nose.

  “It doesn’t apply to any horse, but it depicts a horse who’s lively and eager, regardless of his bloodline or lack thereof.”

  Thorn stiffened his shoulders. “A lot like me, Sir Tomas?”

  “Young man, you will have to justify yourself to many others, but it’s not necessary with me. You may find me a good friend one day.”

  Thorn turned his face away and scanned the room yet again, distracted by two men in disagreement. “Will my father resent my Indian blood lines?” It pained him to ask such a question.

  “I cannot answer for him, but I would caution you to be respectful at all times. Get to know him as he will try to know you. Do not go in with a chip on that rather large shoulder.”

  “Do not underestimate me, Sir Tomas. I have an inquisitive mind. I may be young, but I do believe I was born old.”

  “You sound and act much older, I agree. Why not take one moment at a time? Your father could have let you lie in your hut forever, but he decided to send his best friend to bring you back. I understand your quandary, but don’t let it influence your thinking. He just found out about you!”