The Duke with the Dragon Tattoo (Victorian Rebels, #6)(100)
“I don’t see how that’s any of your concern.” She hated the weakness in her voice, the fear she’d never quite learned how to hide.
“Everything that happens within the stones of this keep, nay, on Mackenzie lands, are of concern to me. That now includes ye. Especially since ye’ll be influencing my children.” He took another step forward, and before Mena could retreat, his hand snaked out and cupped her chin.
The small, frightened sound Mena made startled them both.
Ravencroft’s gaze sharpened, but he didn’t release her.
Her jaw felt as substantive as glass in his hand. Mena knew it would take nothing at all for him to crush her, a simple tightening of his strong, rough fingers. His dark eyes locked on her lips, and they seemed to part of their own volition, exuding the soft rasps of her panicked breath.
He leaned down toward her, crowding her with the proximity of his forceful presence.
She saw him clearly now, as so many must have at the violent ends of their lives. Inhumanely stark features weathered by decades of discipline and brutality frowned down at her now, as though measuring her coffin.
Suddenly the fire and candles cast more shadows in the grand room than light.
Mena knew men like the laird of Ravencroft Keep rarely existed, and when they did, history made gods of them.
Or demons.
THE DUKE
“There was nothing like fire he could ignite…”
For a moment, it was as though the moonlight had become sunlight. Her hair shone more brilliantly than it ought. A large flower ornament glittering with center gems winked from the coiffure as though held there by magic and a prayer. In the ballroom he’d thought her gown too garish, a silly ocherous flower among precious jewel tones.
But here in the garden she belonged. She … bloomed.
Cole hadn’t realized that his mouth had dropped open until his pipe clattered to the stones, spilling ashes and cinders at his feet.
She started at the sound, turning to peer into the darkness. “W-who’s there?” she asked in a tremulous whisper. “Jeremy, is that you?”
Something vicious twisted inside him. Jeremy? Why did that name sound familiar? Who was he to the sainted Lady Anstruther? A lover, perhaps? It surprised him how little he liked that possible development.
Instead of answering, he bent to retrieve his pipe, stamping out the smoldering coal beneath his boot heel.
And instead of fleeing, like many a frightened damsel would, she ventured closer to him, her voluminous skirts swishing softly against the stones and overgrown plants.
“Oh,” she said finally when she’d drawn close enough. “It’s you.”
Cole could decipher little to no affect in her tone, so he remained silent, finding that his heart answered each step she took with alarming acceleration. Damn her, he’d barely calmed the excitable organ down. Though, apparently, it wasn’t the only organ that seemed to react to her nearness. Adjusting his position to alleviate a disturbing tightness in his trousers, he slid deeper into the darkness toward the far side of the bench.
The daft woman mistook it as an invitation to sit next to him.
“Worry not, I didn’t plan to linger.” He lifted his pipe. “This seemed like the place to seek refuge from the insufferable crowd and indulge in a smoke before taking my leave.”
“It seems we had similar instincts, Your Grace.” She glanced around, and Cole wondered if she used the colorful flora as an excuse not to look at him. “I’m exceedingly fond of this garden. It makes an excellent refuge.”
He chose not to reveal that he knew just exactly how often she made use of this sanctuary. That he could spy upon her from his study window and he’d seen more of her than she’d ever intended.
“Though I confess, I didn’t expect to find you here.” She seemed nervous. In the moonlight, he could make out the intensity with which she clasped her hands together in her lap.
“Obviously.” He should have been chagrined to be discovered lingering on her property. “Expecting someone else, were we?” He set his pipe next to him to itch at the straps of his prosthetic. “Some clandestine rendezvous? Tell me, as a merry widow, do your tastes lean toward the gallant lord, or do you keep to the groundskeeper for a more familiar territory?”
“The groundskeeper? Hercules?” She let out a faintly amused sound, leaving the merry-widow comment alone. “Not likely, he’s a rather hairy Greek man who’s sixty if he’s a day.”
“He’s younger than your first husband,” he challenged.
He expected her to slap him, or at least demand an apology for his ghastly behavior. But to his utter astonishment, she tossed her head and laughed, the sound full of moonlight and merriment.
“Touché,” she acquiesced, a light glinting in her eyes like she’d absorbed some of the shine from the stars. “Not only does my groundskeeper speak very little English, but the dear man eats nothing but garlic. Also, I’m quite certain he bathes in olive oil, which I’ll admit does stir my appetite upon a warm day when he is particularly fragrant, but only for Mediterranean fare. Nothing else, I assure you.”
Struck dumb, Cole could only stare at her with agitated bemusement. Why the devil was she being so civil? He’d been a rote bastard to her, shamed and insulted her in front of her guests. And here she was dallying with him in her garden managing to be entertaining.