The Duke with the Dragon Tattoo (Victorian Rebels, #6)(56)

“I want nothing you can claim as your own. Not your stinking city or your lonely castle. I want Frank Walters. Give him to me, and I’ll return to my ship. Our paths need not cross again.”

Blackwell spoke as though their words traveled across a desk, rather than down the barrels of their guns and across a narrow valley with black peaks that could, at any moment, become their gravestones. He stood just barely too far off for the Rook to identify his exact expression, but he got the impression he’d bemused Blackwell. “Frank was once a master counterfeiter. The best, in fact. Are you here because you’ve taken exception to his previous work?”

“That’s my business.”

“He’s one of my men,” Blackwell stated. “His business is my business.”

If Frank Walters held the secrets of his past, it wasn’t information the Rook wanted in the hands of a canny criminal like Dorian Blackwell.

“He’s just one man.” The Rook also took a step forward, closing the divide. “If you don’t produce him, my crew will attack, including the sharpshooters I have in the hills. Is Frank Walters worth the loss of a dozen men, and your own life?”

Blackwell’s notice darted to the hills, as well. His first show of uncertainty. “I’d rather no one die today,” he stated rather blithely, considering. “It’s something of an anniversary, you see, and you’ve interrupted some rather lengthy and amorous plans my wife and I have been anticipating.”

The Rook tried not to be impressed. The sight of him and his men sent warlords, generals, and even kings scurrying underground. Not Dorian Blackwell. He barely seemed riled.

Which meant he either was very foolhardy.

Or he knew something the Rook did not.

“If you don’t recognize Frank Walters on sight, then any one of these men could be him,” Blackwell reasoned. “What is he worth to you dead?”

“If you don’t produce him, I get silence either way. However, in one scenario, I’m granted the pleasure of killing you. A prospect which becomes more attractive with each passing moment.” It wasn’t that the Rook had ever learned to school emotion out of his voice, it was more that he’d never had much to convey.

Apathy had always been his ally.

So, he considered it alarming that he had to carefully relax his throat and unbind his jaw in order to maintain the same tone of disaffected nonchalance. “You have my terms. Give me Walters, and you’ll return to your wife’s embrace. Refuse, and I’ll leave your corpses in this valley, as I return to mine.”

“Will you, indeed?” A dark hint of whimsy in Blackwell’s voice produced another breath-stealing palpation.

The Rook took a threatening step forward. “Speak your piece, or meet your fate,” he snarled.

“You may have superior numbers, Captain, but I believe I have in my possession something altogether more valuable.” One step closer brought the inexplicably familiar half-smile on his grim mouth into view.

A headache bloomed behind the Rook’s right eye, which he summarily ignored. “What’s that?” he asked from between clenched teeth.

“Collateral.”

“In the form of?” Information? Had Walters already told Blackwell his secrets? Secrets even he was not privy to because of the iron wall in his mind separating him from his memories?

“Two lovely doves,” Blackwell taunted. “One dark and morose, one sweet and fair with a broken wing. One of them, I gather, is your recent bride.”

The Rook had experienced fear and fury before. He’d used it, cold and menacing, to kill so many. To wreak the vengeance that had garnered him international renown. But never, never, had he immolated with an inferno of rage this lethal. His blood burned inside of him, scorching through pathways to his muscles screaming for him to strike. To tear limbs from bodies. “I will murder your entire family. I will burn all you hold dear to the ground and smear your body with the ashes.”

“Yes, yes, I know. As would I in your situation.” The Blackheart of Ben More’s eye shone with an infuriating victorious gleam. “She will remain quite safe so long as there is no violence.”

“There is always violence,” the Rook vowed.

“Not this time.”

“You sealed your fate the moment you touched her.”

“I didn’t have to touch her,” Blackwell scoffed. “The two washed up on my shore like attractive, exhausted driftwood. If I didn’t know better, I’d say your wife had left you, though now I can see why. You’re every inch the sinister, heartless pirate. I don’t imagine that makes for a desirable spouse.”

A pang permeated his rage. Lorelai. She’d awoken, and the countess had succeeded in spiriting her away this time.

She’d left him.

He’d frightened her, and she’d left him. Had run straight into the clutches of one of the most dangerous men alive.

“What are we waiting for, Captain?” Haxby hissed from behind him. “He’s lying. Let’s paint this valley with their blood and be done with it.”

Any other day, he’d have given the order. He’d have ripped the Blackheart of Ben More’s spine out through his throat.

But he couldn’t. Not if Lorelai was in danger.

“How do I know you have her?”