Daring and the Duke (The Bareknuckle Bastards #3)(107)

“What came of us being there was finding each other,” Whit said, his voice low and graveled, always sounding like he’d just begun to use it that moment. “What came of being there was the Bareknuckle Bastards.” He met Grace’s eyes in the waning light. “Grace, there are a thousand things I would change about that godforsaken man and that godforsaken place, but I would not change being there. None of us would.”

Devil’s cane tapped again.

“Though I would gladly change Devil’s choice of a cane sword right now.”

The tapping stopped. “Fuck off.”

Ignoring their bickering, Grace turned back to the window, the sunlight barely there now, the darkness stealing any possibility of tracking their progress. How far were they from the house? How long before she could see him, and tell him the truth—that she loved him. That she wanted to be with him.

And that they would sort out the rest.

It had been twenty years without him, and she was through with it.

Grace stared into the darkness, lost to her thoughts as Devil and Whit squirmed and sniped at each other, the back-and-forth a comfort as she grew more and more desperate to see Ewan, playing over every moment they’d been together since he’d returned to London.

The club. His rooftop. The alleyway with the laundresses.

The fight in her Garden.

The kisses in his.

The masks they’d worn.

“How did he know?” she said softly.

Devil looked up. “How did he know what?”

“That it was me. In the darkness on that night when he woke up. In the ring, with the sack over his head. The night of the masque.”

This time, it was Whit who replied. “He’ll always know you, Grace.”

I shan’t ever not seek you, Grace.

And still, she’d pushed him away.

You are my beginning and end. The other half of me. And you always have been.

In twenty years, she’d convinced herself it wasn’t true. That whatever they’d been—whatever she’d longed for—had been fantasy. A figment.

And she’d been half right. It had been fantasy.

But she should have known better than anyone that fantasy was often more real, and more powerful than reality.

And tonight, she wished to make it reality, full stop.

If only this carriage would go a touch faster.

She looked out the window again, the sunset still blazing red in the distance. It was only then that she realized that it was impossible. That it was far too late for sunset.

She wasn’t looking at the sun.

No.

“No.” She sat up and put her hands on the window. “What has he done?”

It wasn’t sunset.

It was fire.



Burghsey House was engulfed in flames.

The carriage came to a stop one hundred yards from the inferno, as close to the flames as the coachman was willing to get, the gig rocking with his weight coming down from the driving block even as Grace scrambled for the handle and flung the door open, flying from the carriage.

What had he done?

Where was he?

“What has he done?"

“He’s always been mad . . . but this . . .”

Whit and Devil were on her heels as she made her way past the horses, already running, headed for the manor, ablaze in the night.

He was burning it all down. For her.

“Grace!” came Devil’s shout behind her. “No!”

She didn’t listen, tearing through the darkness toward the flames.

A great steel arm came around her, and she screamed, writhing against it. Whit. “Get the fuck off me!” she yelled as he hauled her back.

“Stop,” he growled.

Frustration and fury came hot and angry, and she struggled against her brother’s grip, wild with the need to get free. To get to Ewan.

She turned back, her hand already fisting, already flying, already landing directly on his nose and setting his head back. “Christ!” he growled as he took the blow . . . and she took off once more.

“Grace! Stop!” Devil shouted as he caught her, this time.

“I have to get to him!” she screamed, struggling against his grip. “I’ll take you out, too!”

Devil was stronger than he looked. “And I’ll take it,” he said, in her ear. “I’ve taken worse for you, Gracie. We all have.”

She turned back, ready to do more damage, but Devil was also ready, blocking her fist with one of his heavy hands. “Grace,” he said again, calm and even, as though they were anywhere but here, on the ancestral lands of his father, where they’d all been through hell.

“Grace,” Whit repeated from Devil’s shoulder, where he’d caught up with them, nose bloodied, the red-gold glow of the fire making the worry on his face clear.

The worry on both their faces.

It was the worry that broke her. The softness in their eyes, those eyes that were part of a set. A trio. Her heart pounded. “He’s inside.”

“You don’t know that.” Devil.

She looked to him. “I do,” she said, panic flaring even as she looked to Whit. “I do. He’s in there, and he’s alone, and I have to get to him.”

She would be damned if she let this place have him.

Not after all they’d been through.