The Duke with the Dragon Tattoo (Victorian Rebels, #6)(23)

Apparently, Veronica had been of the same mind, as she leaped for the latch before Moncrieff had even appeared from his perch to help them down.

Ungainly teal skirts barely seemed to hinder Veronica at all, as she daintily hopped down without the use of the steps, and turned to assist Lorelai. “Quickly, now,” she urged.

Lorelai gathered up the length of her veil in a billowing ivory armful, and reached out to take Veronica’s hand. Her landing was decidedly less graceful, and the gathering wind threatened to rip her veil from her grasp.

The ground beneath her slippers seemed to tremble as the driver’s heavy boots landed beside her.

Startled, both ladies gaped at his broad back as he advanced. The wind whipped his black leather coat around his long legs as he strolled toward the cathedral as blithely as an invited guest.

Just what did he think he was doing?

Mortimer jabbed an accusatory finger at her, condemnation seething from him like an inquisitor to a witch. “Did you do something to scare him off?”

Lorelai flinched. “W-what?”

“God, you’re as bloody useless as a lame mare! Your fiancé,” he thundered. “You couldn’t even entice that tub of guts to show up to his own wedding, you—”

“It’s my fault Mr. Gooch isn’t here, I’m afraid,” the coachman said casually.

With one nimble motion, he reached into his coat, produced a long, bejeweled dagger, and shoved it beneath Mortimer’s chin.

He didn’t stop pushing until the point embedded in Mortimer’s brain.

Lorelai watched her brother die horribly. Slowly.

And quietly.

His hateful tongue skewered through right on the yard of the cathedral as his knees buckled and he fell to the earth.

A strangled sound emanated from Veronica, and she and Lorelai clutched at each other, shrinking back toward the carriage.

There must have been a commotion. A ripple of aware ness as the attendees inside became cognizant of the turmoil out on the grounds. Sobs. Screams.

Lorelai marked none of it.

A weighty fatigue settled upon her and black spots danced in her periphery. The world swayed. Or did she? No. Not now. She couldn’t faint. She couldn’t leave poor Veronica alone to face whatever came next.

Because the coachman turned to address them both. He removed the cowl that had hidden his features and turned down his collar.

A black cloud of horror smothered her. Black, like his eyes. Like his hair. Like the grief that had swallowed her when he hadn’t returned all those years ago.

Like the churning storm that framed him now, summoned by whatever ancient, malevolent God had unleashed him upon this earth.

She couldn’t say his name. Because this devil before her surely was not Ash. He was taller. Wider. Darker in every way possible.

He’d just … murdered her brother. Without sentiment, explanation, or ceremony of any kind.

And now he simply regarded her with the same sort of triumphant expectation one would after a particularly well played bout of croquet.

“Captain.” Moncrieff blocked her from flinging herself at him, whether to assault him or embrace him, she hadn’t yet decided. “I do believe it’s time we quit this affair.”

“I do believe you’re right.”

He stalked back toward the carriage in long, primal strides. His carriage, Lorelai realized numbly.

For that’s what she was. Numb. She couldn’t feel her feet beneath her or her hands at the ends of her wrists. Not until he moved closer.

Lightning forked across a once-calm sky, but that wasn’t what lifted every hair on her body.

It was the way he moved. Upright, like a man, but with the feral tread of an animal. Every motion maintained by absolute control and primal intent.

No pleasure brightened the pitiless voids of his eyes. No tender hunger. Nor bitter wrath. Not even a murderous fury to warrant such an act of violence.

And yet there had been no true violence in the deed.

Just a smooth, unhurried pressure. Utter, lethal precision … and a man’s life ended. It had been as if he’d performed the act a thousand times. A million, maybe.

This couldn’t be. Lorelai’s mind hurried to reject the specter of a beloved ghost thought long dead.

Thrusting a hyperventilating Veronica behind her, she did what she could to stumble out of his way.

If only she could run. But, she realized, even an able-bodied person wouldn’t easily evade such a man.

She’d thought him tall, but had been mistaken.

He’d been tall twenty years ago. Now, he was tremendous.

“Get in the carriage.” The wind stole notes of his low, cool command, but Lorelai read every word on his lips.

Veronica scrambled inside.

A thousand, thousand refusals, questions, and emotions swirled in a maelstrom of hysteria inside of her head.

What escaped was, “Why?” The word was both all-encompassing, and completely insubstantial, but her rapidly closing throat couldn’t force out one more word.

“I came for you,” he answered dispassionately.

“Why?” she gasped again, hoping she could hear his answer over the hammering of her heart.

Coffee-dark eyes speared her with an arctic indiffer ence she’d not known existed until this moment. “Does the sun still set in the west?”

The question stole her ability to breathe. She’d been hoping that despite the brutal features, despite the blue-black of his hair, and the unmistakable scars, she’d still been gaping at an interloper.