The Duke with the Dragon Tattoo (Victorian Rebels, #6)(39)

“They’ll do no such thing.” The Rook melted out of the mist like Hades emerging from a realm of ghosts to claim his most recent soul.

Lorelai froze, gaping at the sight of him.

He moved like a panther. Silent and predatory, with the languid ease of a beast at rest, comfortable in the knowledge that he was the creature to whom all in his vicinity showed deference.

He claimed first kill. He devoured the most desirable morsels. His very presence alerted the jackals to wait their turn.

If he was lord of the underworld, was she Persephone, then? A prize to be claimed. An unwilling bride to be dragged down to the depths as his consort.

That certainly seemed to be his intent.

Veronica made a hopeless sound, and Lorelai instinctively stepped in front of her, wishing with all her might she’d not relinquished her pistol.

To her astonishment, Barnaby trudged alongside the Rook, his head down and his hands clasped behind his back like a scolded child.

Dash it all, where was the gun? Had the Rook wrested it from him?

Lorelai ached to go to the old man, to comfort him, but six feet plus of dark and deadly pirate stood in her way.

The Rook’s lips tightened with a wry sort of amusement. “Why would old Barnaby here go through the trouble of milking a goat to feed motherless kittens if we simply planned on slaughtering them?” He gently but firmly pried Lorelai’s hands from the basket, and handed the litter back to Barnaby, who reluctantly accepted it. “Everyone aboard a ship has a job to do, and Barnaby, here, is a surprisingly deft gamekeeper.”

“You must let him go. He has nothing to do with this,” Lorelai demanded. Well, she’d meant to demand. In reality, her words escaped as a half whisper, half question and landed somewhere in the vicinity of his chest. If she met his gaze, she might expire.

“You would presume to steal from me, and then order me about on my own ship?” Mirth shaded his smooth baritone.

Her limbs went cold. “Steal from you?”

“That’s my flannel, is it not?”

“Flannel?” Lorelai had never before heard the word.

“My shirt. Though I’ll admit it suits you much better.”

She looked down, distressed to note two of the toggles had come loose, and the nonexistent collar had begun to slip off one shoulder. She clutched it to her throat, finally gathering the courage to meet his sinister glare.

He assessed her with his own shark eyes as she searched his achingly familiar face. He looked so much the same, and yet she recognized none of Ash in him. And she searched. God, did she hunt for a glimmer of the boy she’d loved.

His jaw was stronger, wider than before. His skin shades darker, weathered by the sun and the wind. The hollows of his cheeks were deeper, as though the fullness of youth had been chiseled away by a cruel but masterful artist.

He still wore his clothing from last night, and his collar gaped open, just as hers had. Unlike the ink on his back, the tattoos covering his chest and winding up his neck had vivid hues. She thought she saw the stripes of a tiger’s claw slashing up toward his throat.

Dashing away an unwelcome curiosity, she hurried to explain herself. “I had to cover myself with something. I selected the least expensive garments I could find.”

“No you didn’t. That sash is the rarest cashmere made from soft exotic beasts who may only be sheared once every three years. It’s worth more than your entire wedding dress.”

Veronica gasped, and ran her fingers over the sash as though to test his assertion.

“I—I didn’t know,” Lorelai protested. Even as the daughter of an earl, she’d never been afforded many expensive things, and the sash was a plain cream, unadorned by jewels, tassels, or intricate threads.

The dagger concealed within was most likely valuable as well, the hilt and sheath encrusted with enough gems to sustain a small village through the winter.

She glanced over toward Barnaby, pleading at him with her eyes. Now was his chance. If he had the pistol, he could train it on the Rook and convince him to let them all go. If any of the crew showed up, it would be too late.

What if Barnaby shot the Rook?

The thought lanced a confounding fear and grief through her chest. She’d not overtly mourn a violent murderer. But to watch a man with Ash’s beloved features die would crush her spirit into the dust.

What to do?

The Rook slid closer, lifting her chin, though her eyes darted anywhere they could to avoid his empty gaze. “You have more courage than you used to.”

She really didn’t. She’d always been timid. Afraid. She’d cowered beneath the heel of a tyrant her entire life and would rather freeze at night or starve at mealtimes than displease her own servants. A dive into the treacherous sea sounded far more comfortable than a verbal spar with anyone, let alone a pirate.

If she could dissolve into the very mist that surrounded them, she’d sell her soul to do so now.

“I—I didn’t mean to steal from you. I’m sorry.” Was she really apologizing to the man who’d murdered her brother, kidnapped her, her family, her favorite employee, and her kittens? “T-to be fair, you ruined my bodice,” she reminded him hesitantly.

A few masculine chuckles erupted from the mist, and Lorelai’s heart sank further as she realized they were surrounded.

Surrounded … by pirates.

The Rook’s fingers tightened on her wobbling chin. “You should have stayed where I left you.”