The Duke with the Dragon Tattoo (Victorian Rebels, #6)(78)

CHAPTER TWENTY

Lorelai made space for Veronica as her sister-in-law joined her on the upper deck of the forecastle to watch the bustling below as they steamed toward the pier.

“I never thought I’d be so happy to see Southbourne Grove.” Veronica shielded her eyes with her hand and gazed over the branching tendrils of the estuary toward their home.

“I never thought I wouldn’t.” Lorelai shared none of Veronica’s enthusiasm, which surprised her. Since they’d left Ben More Castle earlier that morning, she’d fought a strange sense of impending doom.

It unsettled her even more that she seemed to be the only one.

The general morale on the ship could only be called jolly, if one ignored the furtive and untrusting feeling toward the new small contingent of Dorian Blackwell’s men. Still, the prospect of imminent treasure was to a pirate ship what the prospect of a ducal marriage was to an equally mercenary crew of matriarchs at Almack’s in its day.

Indeed, Lorelai had diverted herself greatly by watching the antics of eight little kittens roaming freely about the main deck, befriending a band of rough-and-tumble pirates. It caused her no end of amusement to observe a rather gigantic chap by the name of Cutthroat Bill set the little fluff ball on his shoulder for the entire afternoon and refer to his new companion as “Little Bill.”

Shifty Rodriguez, on the other hand, almost lost an eye when he’d been unaware that a tiny orange tabby had fallen asleep in his hat. He’d lifted it to put it on, and was rewarded with a jack-in-the-box pounce to his face that caused more apoplexy then actual damage.

He and the orange fellow seemed to have made peace, though, and he even put his hat back on the table where it had been should the gatito be in need of another siesta.

Barnaby had taken to dragging a red tassel the size of a mouse at the end of a fishing twine from his belt as he paced the deck about his work. Any number of hunting kittens could be found stalking him, swiping at the lure with murderous enthusiasm.

By the time they reached the estuary, all the kittens had names and, it seemed, had been unofficially claimed by one pirate or another. If Lorelai had it correctly, there was Little Bill, Gatito, Katjie, Neko, Ikati, Bast, White Bastard, and Jim.

Lorelai initially thought each name had a story, but was disavowed of that notion when Barnaby mentioned that the more exotic names were simply variances of the word cat in different languages.

Of course they were, she’d sighed to herself.

Men.

As they steamed closer to shore, Lorelai was struck again by the beauty of her home. A teeming flock of a thousand starlings ascended in the distance, using the same wind to paint a dancing portrait in the rare blue sky.

The sea air was mild and sweet, and it tossed the strands that had come loose from Veronica’s braid across Lorelai’s shoulder.

They were returning to the past, she realized, as she found her handsome husband standing below her at the bow of the ship, watching the same spectacle of birds.

For better or for worse.

She thought of what was beneath that expensive black suit. The gigantic raven wings spanning over muscle built upon muscle. The sinew and scars. The passion and pain. The courage and cleverness. All the things that made this man. That made her man.

“Do you love him?” Veronica murmured.

“I do,” she answered, perhaps even surprising herself. It was the answer to the question she hadn’t been asked on her wedding day. “I—I think I always have.”

“Have you told him?”

“I have.”

Veronica hesitated. Bit her lip. “Has he told you?”

Lorelai tried not to let her shoulders slump. “He’s shown me his devotion, and that’s different than mere words. Better, surely.”

“Surely…” Veronica didn’t sound quite as convinced. “Who’d have thought that you and I would be embroiled in a search for treasure? That we’d be whisked away on a pirate adventure?”

“I’m glad you’re choosing to see it as an adventure and not an ordeal.”

Veronica gestured toward where Blackwell had joined the Rook, striking up a discussion. The briny sea breeze carried the masculine voices, if not their words, up to the ladies. “Your Rook was right about one thing, he’s done me a favor, I suppose. I know it’s savage of me to say, but I fear had he not killed Mortimer, I’d have ended up doing it myself, one day. Or trying to. The blood is on his hands … I suppose I should be thankful for that.”

Lorelai hooked her arm through her beloved friend’s. “If ever there was someone who deserved what he got…”

“Indeed.” Veronica seemed surprised to hear Lorelai say it, but she didn’t comment. “I suppose I’ll go back to my family and pretend to mourn, when all of this is done. Though, Lord knows, I’d rather do anything else.”

“I hope you still consider me family.” Lorelai squeezed her tighter.

“Of course I do, darling.” Veronica dropped a fond kiss on her temple.

“You could stay here,” she offered.

Veronica glanced over to where Moncrieff coiled threads of chain that must have weighed as much as he did. “I don’t think that’s for the best, at least until the fervor over Mortimer’s death dies down. Besides, who knows who will next inherit Southbourne Grove?”