Duke of Desire (Maiden Lane #12)(83)

Iris swallowed, feeling sick from his words. If he was speaking the truth and she understood him correctly, then he’d been abused as Raphael had, only the Dionysus had never been rescued by a loving aunt. He’d been left to suffer—and this was the result.

“So you see why I have this interest in fate.” The Dionysus’s voice interrupted her thoughts. “Had I had a normal or even an unconcerned upbringing, perhaps this would be an entirely different carriage ride. Perhaps you would be my loving bride instead of Dyemore’s. Wouldn’t that be strange?”

Iris felt her breathing slow like a small animal in the presence of a predator. She didn’t like the direction in which his thoughts were turning.

“But I am already married,” she said steadily. “I rather wonder about you. Have you a wife? A fiancée? Someone you love?”

“Do you think your husband would mind terribly if we pretended, you and I, that we were wed?” the Dionysus asked mockingly, entirely ignoring her questions. It was as if she were mute.

Iris remembered that conversation she’d had with Raphael—it seemed so long ago now—about rape and the choice to live or not. She’d been so blithe in her insistence that life was always the better choice. That there was never reason to despair.

To give up and take one’s own life.

Now, though, facing an insane man, not knowing if Raphael even knew that she was in danger, not knowing if he could get to her before she was raped and killed …

Well.

Things looked rather bleak.

But she raised her chin defiantly. She still believed that there was hope as long as one lived. No matter what might happen.

No matter what this madman might do to her.

She looked at the Dionysus coolly and said, “You are not a tenth the man Raphael is. You could never hope to replace him.”

Raphael gripped the mare with his thighs as she galloped, her neck strained and flecked with foam. The gallop was reckless on the carriage road. They might come upon a pedestrian or a herd of sheep at any moment. But he’d grown impatient as they rode through London. In the city they’d been able only to trot and sometimes canter, all the while wondering if they’d be in time.

If he would be in time.

The moment they’d made the country roads, Raphael had kneed his horse into a gallop.

Beside him, Kyle was on a big bay gelding, and behind them were their men—his Corsicans, Kyle’s trio of former soldiers, and over a dozen soldiers—the King’s men—hastily gathered by Kyle. How he’d been able to summon the King’s men on such short notice, Raphael wasn’t entirely sure. But that ability was, of course, why he’d sought Kyle’s help in the first place.

The sun was beginning to set, the sky turning a fiery orange as night fell.

All he could see was Iris’s face. Her eyes blue gray and stormy. Hurt. Because he’d sent her away. He’d not even said farewell.

If she should die …

He would not consider the notion.

He gripped the reins so tightly they cut into his palms even through the leather gloves he wore.

She was alive. As long as she was alive, no matter what, all was not lost.

He would find her and save her. He would apologize. He would go on bended knee if it would make this right again. He would spend the rest of his life doing anything to make her happy.

Even if that meant letting her go if that was her wish.

She just needed to live.

Because a world without Iris was a world without light.





Chapter Eighteen




So Ann became the Rock King’s wife, although there was not much involved in the job. The pot was always full of stew, so she need not cook. There were no chickens to feed nor cows to milk nor wool to spin. At night the Rock King would turn down his rough bed and let Ann climb in first. Then he would blow out the candle and she would listen as he undressed and entered the bed bedside her.

His arms were strong and warm.…

—From The Rock King





Iris stumbled as she walked behind the Dionysus in the church ruins, a sleeping Tansy cradled in her arms. The sun had set only minutes before and dark had descended, fast and ominous.

Over two dozen rough-looking men surrounded them, the Dionysus’s hired toughs. Two of the men carried a large chest between them.

Her wrists were bound in front of her and she feared for her life. She couldn’t help thinking that she was back in the nightmare that had begun all this: the Lords of Chaos’s revelry with their Dionysus presiding over all.

Save for the fact that today was not part of a revelry. Today the Dionysus meant to kill her husband and then her.

She knew this because he’d explained it all to her with great relish before they had left the carriage. If the Dionysus had ever been sane, he’d long since lost the battle to keep his mind.

“Now here we will meet your husband and here we will lay his bones,” the Dionysus said, stopping by the arch of the ruined church. The two men with the chest set it down with a thunk. “A fitting place for the last of the Dyemores, I think, in the ruins of this forgotten church.” He turned to her and cocked his head. “Would you like to be buried next to your husband?”

Her fingers were trembling in Tansy’s fur, but she remembered, all those days ago, vowing to not to let this man take her dignity.