Opal’s story had a happy ending, but he knew that for as long as he lived, he would never forget that terrible fear in her eye. It was the same fear he saw now, in the distressed violet eyes of the Duchess of Glastonbury.
“I–I have a knife, and I’ll use it! I swear I will!”
His gaze automatically slid to her shaking right hand, where she held…
“Are you threatening me with a paint brush?” he drawled.
“N-no,” she said, brandishing her makeshift weapon like a sword. “It’s a knife. A very s-sharp knife.”
“It looks like a paintbrush to me,” he said, not unkindly.
Her snow-white cheeks flushed a very attractive shade of pink. “Well, it’s not! So you should just-just run away!”
Lucas shook his head, and there was genuine regret in his voice when he said, “I’m afraid I cannot do that.”
“W-why not?” she whispered.
He knew he should keep his distance from the duchess. But he’d always been drawn to frail, beautiful things.
And Persephone Stillwater was no exception.
She gasped when he emerged from the shadows. The small, helpless sound drew his attention to her mouth. He was fascinated by her plump top lip, curved in the shape of a cupid’s bow. By the ton’s strict standards of beauty it was no doubt considered an unfortunate blemish in an otherwise flawless countenance.
But to Lucas, it was perfect.
She was perfect.
She was also terrified.
The paintbrush she’d been threatening to run him through with fell to the ground when he gently cupped her chin and tilted her head back. Her skin was soft as satin. Her lashes, long and full. Her eyes, wide and wary.
She studied him as a frightened rabbit would a hungry wolf, but he thought he detected a glint of fierceness amidst all that fear. Her spirit had been bruised, but it wasn’t yet broken. He didn’t know why that should fill him with relief. His concern wasn’t for Persephone’s welfare or wellbeing. He needed only to return her to her husband in one piece, and collect his reward.
But as he gazed down upon her pale face, Lucas knew in his heart he could no more turn her over to the duke than he could have returned Opal to the earl.
Persephone was his now, whether she realized it or not.
And Lucas always protected what was his.
“Why not? Because you’re the Duchess of Glastonbury,” he said huskily, his thumb brushing across her pale cheek. “And I’ve been hired to kidnap you.”
Chapter Two
Dear heavens.
As Percy stared wordlessly up into the golden eyes of her captor, she wondered if anyone would hear her if she screamed. Helena was not due back from the theater for another two hours. Mr. Hodgson, the widower who lived next door, was notoriously hard of hearing. But maybe if she yelled loudly enough…
“No,” the golden-eyed stranger said mildly when her lips parted.
Percy blinked. “I haven’t done anything yet.”
“You were about to call for help, in which case I would be forced to put a gag on you, and it’d be a right shame to cover up that pretty mouth.”
She gasped.
He grinned.
“I am going to let you go now, love. Do us both a favor, and don’t try to run.” He released her and stepped back, his hands lifted innocently in the air.
But Percy wasn’t fooled. She knew there was nothing innocent about this…this scoundrel. He was taller than her by at least twelve inches, and ruggedly built, with broad shoulders and a wide chest that tapered to narrow hips and long, muscular legs enclosed in black calfskin breeches. His dark brown hair was pulled back off his temple with a simple leather tie, revealing flat, thick brows, and eyes the color of the sun moments before it sank below the horizon. His nose was slightly crooked in the middle, indicating it had been broken at least once, and a silver scar in the shape of a hook peeked through the bristle along his hard jawline.
His attire was as disreputable as the rest of him. She’d never seen Hessians so worn, and he hadn’t even bothered with a cravat, leaving his bronzed throat exposed for all the world to see. His coat was black, like his breeches, and fell all the way past his knees. The blood drained from her cheeks when he shifted his weight, and the edge of his coat slipped open, showing a pistol resting comfortably on his hip.
“Oh,” she said softly as her heart pitched into her throat.
Following the direction of her gaze, the stranger’s grin softened into a crooked smile that was strangely reassuring. “Not to worry, love. I did not come here to hurt you.”
Her eyes flew to his face. “Just to kidnap me.”
“True,” he admitted. “But you’ll come to no harm in my care.”
For some reason, she actually believed him.
It was the fumes from the paint, she decided. They’d gone to her head. What other reason could there possibly be for trusting this man at his word?
“What is your name?” she demanded, mustering all of the courage she possessed. “Who sent you?”
“There are those claws again,” he murmured, and Percy flushed when he reached for her hand and rubbed his thumb across her knuckles. “What are these little blotches on your skin? Blue, purple, and green. Like the colors of a rainbow.”
“Watercolor.” She snatched her hand away. “I prefer not to wear gloves when I paint.”
Arms behind his back, the stranger wandered over to the easel. He studied her work, his expression inscrutable, and she’d just begun to edge her way to the wooden gate in the corner of the garden when he said, “You’ve got a rare talent, love.”
Percy stilled. It shouldn’t have mattered what this ne’er-do-well thought. He’d come here to kidnap her, for goodness’ sake. But when a flower was denied sun for too long, it instinctively turned towards the nearest sense of warmth.
How many times had she secretly yearned to hear Andrew compliment her paintings? Instead he’d disparaged them at every turn, snidely calling her artwork “childish” and “embarrassing”.
“Can you not do that somewhere else?” he’d said once, when he’d entered to see she’d set up her easel in the middle of the parlor in order to paint the thunderclouds rolling in over the fields. “I wouldn’t want a guest to stumble in here and see how pitifully untalented my wife is.”
She’d put her brushes away after that. There was no joy to be found in mockery. No encouragement to be discovered in cruel taunts and cynical remarks. It wasn’t until Helena caught her absently drawing one afternoon on a scrap of paper, and then surprised her with a paintbox complete with porcelain mixing pans, fine wooden brushes tipped with marten hair, and blocks of chalk, that she took up her beloved hobby again.
Now she painted nearly every day, having discovered what she should have known all along: her art was for herself, no one else. She’d never needed Andrew’s approval. She had wanted it. And those were two very, very different things.
Still, it meant something, to receive a genuine compliment.
Even if it came from a criminal. A criminal who had shown her more kindness in five minutes than her husband had in five years.
“Do you–do you really think so?” she asked tentatively.
He looked at her over his shoulder, his amber eyes piercing in their intensity. “I don’t say things I don’t mean.”
Percy trembled. Who was this man? This man who dressed like a blackguard and had the arrogance of a duke. Where had he come from? What did he want? And why did she find him so attractive?
“Has my husband sent you?” She swallowed hard. “I–I know he has been trying to find me.”
“I’m afraid I cannot tell you that, love. Client confidentiality, and such. You understand.” The edge of his mouth quirked up in another grin that would have been charming if she could have forgotten about the gun underneath his coat.
Heat flamed across Percy’s countenance as self-disgust propelled her to take one step back, then another. She’d known h
er judgement in men was poor after Andrew had managed to fool her into falling in love with him, but she’d never known it was this bad.
Attractive? Charming?!
This man wasn’t charming or attractive, he was dangerous!
And she needed to free herself from this situation immediately.
“The only thing I understand is that you’ve come here with ill-intentions.” Forcing her hands to her hips, she lifted her chin and adopted the most imperious, duchess-y voice she could muster. “You need to leave. At once.”
But he didn’t leave.
He came closer, prowling towards her with the stealthy grace of a large, deadly predator as she stumbled away from him until she brushed up against the white picket fence that separated Helena’s property from the neighbor’s. Her gaze darted wildly from side to side, but there was nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide. She’d been brought to ground, and was completely at the mercy of a golden-eyed devil with the silver tongue of an angel.
“P-please go away,” she said haltingly as the courage she’d been able to muster abruptly withered, like a plant that had gone too long without water. “Whatever Andrew is paying you, I’ll find a way to double it. It–it may take me a while, but I promise I can–”
He silenced her by pressing his finger to her lips. “You don’t need to pay me a shilling, love.”
A flicker of hope unfurled within her breast. “Then you’ll let me go?”
His husky laugh did strange, unwanted things to her belly. “That, I’m afraid, is the one thing I cannot do.”
She closed her eyes as tears welled on her lashes. “He’ll kill me, you know.” The gut-wrenching admission nearly brought her to her knees. “My husband. You said you wouldn’t harm me, but if you deliver me to Andrew, that’s exactly what you’ll be doing.”
“That bastard is not going to touch a bloody hair on your head.”
Percy’s eyes flew open in surprise at the savage fierceness in his tone, and what she saw nearly caused her to faint.
Gone was the charismatic rogue with the engaging grin. Six inches from her stood a devil. A devil forged of granite and steel and hellfire. A devil who would not let anything–or anyone–stand in his way.
“Come on,” he growled, taking her arm.
“Where–where are we going?” she asked, struggling to keep up with his larger stride as he pulled her across the lawn towards the house. She hadn’t bothered to lock the door–why would she when she’d only intended for paint for a little while before returning inside?–and they entered through the glass doors without issue.
“We’re going to collect some of your clothes,” he said bluntly.
“And then?” she whispered, not knowing if she truly wanted an answer.
His expression inscrutable, he finally turned to her at the base of the staircase. “And then we disappear.”
Chapter Three
He’ll kill me, you know.
Those five words, so brokenly uttered, pounded inside of Lucas’s head like a drum as he stood guard by Persephone’s bedroom door while she packed her belongings into a leather valise.
Her dark head bowed in concentration, she worked quickly and efficiently, with only the slightest quiver of her hands to betray her nervousness.
Lucas was sorry for that.
Sorry he had added to all that weight she already carried on those slender shoulders.
Sorry he had to put her through more misery before everything was said and done.
Sorry he couldn’t wave his hand and take away all of her fear and pain.
Instead, he’d do the next best thing and get her the hell out of here. Because if he could find her, then that meant someone else could as well. Perhaps not as fast. His lip curled in derision at the thought. Lucas was the best at what he did. There was no one better. But there were others, others who had sold their souls long ago, and when they stumbled upon the duchess’s little hideout–and they would stumble upon it, it was only a matter of time–they wouldn’t hesitate to drag her back to her husband like a sacrificial lamb to the slaughter.
He’ll kill me, you know.
Yes, after seeing firsthand how terror had glazed her eyes as she’d searched for monsters in the shadows, he did know. And even though it meant giving up the biggest reward that he’d ever been offered (no small pill to swallow), Lucas would be damned before he turned Persephone over to Glastonbury.
“I–I think I am finished,” the duchess said softly. She closed the valise and then buckled it, but didn’t move away from the bed. “Where are you taking me?”
“Somewhere safe.”
“But I’m safe here.”
He lifted a brow. “Then how did I find you?”
“I…I don’t know,” she admitted, averting her gaze.
“Too easily, love. The answer is I found you too easily. Which means others will be able to do the same.” Was that a carriage he heard? Lucas moved to the window, yanked back the curtain, and bit back a curse when he saw a curricle pull up in front of the house. A man climbed out, then walked around to the other side to help a woman do the same. “We need to leave. Now.”
Picking up the valise with one hand, he wrapped the other around Persephone’s dainty waist and escorted her down the stairs. They reached the bottom at the same time a key turned in the front lock.
“Don’t even think about it,” he growled.
She didn’t heed his warning.
“Helena!” she cried. “Helena, help! I’m being–errmmff!”
Lifting the duchess onto his shoulder, Lucas headed for the garden. While they’d been upstairs packing, the dark bloom of evening had deepened and nearly covered every inch of the yard. Tossing the valise over the white picket fence, he carried Persephone to the opposite corner and then crouched down behind a large thicket of bushes. Pressing a hand against her mouth, he tucked her protectively into the crook of his arm.
“Easy, love,” he murmured in her ear. “It’s going to be all right.”
Lucas could only imagine what she thought of him and how scared she must be. He could feel how fast her heart was racing. She was so small in his arms, like a tiny sparrow. And he hated that he was contributing to her panic. Despised himself for adding to her fear. But he knew she was safest with him.
He could protect her.
He would protect her.
Even if it meant kidnapping her first.
“Percy?” A woman with red hair ran out into the middle of the yard, followed closely by a tall man. “Percy, where are you?” she called frantically, spinning in a circle.
“Here!” the man shouted, having peered over the fence and spied the valise. “They must have gone this way.”
“Well, what are we waiting for?” the woman snapped. “Let’s go after them.”
Lucas waited until they’d climbed over the fence, and their footsteps had faded away, before he emerged from the bushes and reclaimed the valise. “I can let you walk unhindered,” he told Persephone, “or toss you up over my shoulder again. It’s your decision.”
“That’s not much of a decision,” she said bitterly.
He shrugged. “It’s the only one I have to offer.”
“You could leave me here. Those were my friends you sent on a wild goose chase.” She gestured to the fence. “They care for me. They’ll keep me safe.”
“Your so-called friends left you here alone to be abducted,” he pointed out.
“Yes, but you’re the one who is abducting me!”
“If it weren’t me, it would have been someone else. Consider yourself lucky, love.”
Her violet eyes flashed with both temper and tears. “Yes, I’m incredibly lucky. The luckiest girl I know. I’m just drowning in luck.”
“Your sarcasm is duly noted.”
“Oh!” She stomped her foot into the ground, forcing Lucas to bite back a grin. The duchess was adorable when she was angry, like a kitten with its hackles raised. “You’re…you’re…”
“Yes?�
� he said mildly.
“Wretched! You’re absolutely wretched!”
He shook his head. “We really need to work on your insults, love.”
“We don’t need to work on anything because I am not going anywhere with you.” She crossed her arms and angled her chin; the very picture of defiance. Unless one bothered to look past the artificial display of bravado and saw the pale cheeks, the trembling bottom lip, and the crescent moons that her nails were digging into her smooth ivory flesh.
“Let’s not make this any harder than it needs to be.” His voice was gentle but firm. He grasped her arm right above the elbow, and when she started to pull back, he gave her a stern look. “It would be foolish of you to mistake my patience for kindness, love. This is not a negotiation. You’re my prisoner, and there’s not a damn thing you can do about it. Now you can walk, or I can toss you up over my shoulder like a sack of potatoes, but either way. you are leaving here with me.”
“You’re a cold-hearted b-bastard,” she choked out, glaring at him through her tears.
“That’s better.” With a grim smile, Lucas pulled her into the shadows.
“She’s gone.” The feeling of utmost dread filled Helena’s stomach as she and Stephen, Earl of Cambridge and her husband-to-be, reached yet another dead end.
For the past three hours, they’d frantically searched every street from Hyde Park to Grosvenor Square with no success. Her legs were exhausted, and there were blisters on both of her heels, but it was her heart that hurt the most.
“Glastonbury took her,” she said hoarsely, her throat tightening.
“We do not know for certain that’s what happened.” Gathering Helena in his arms, Stephen hugged her against his chest, his chin resting on top of her fiery red hair. “And even if it is, we’ll get her back. Don’t worry.”
“Don’t worry?” Incredulous, Helena twisted free of her fiancé’s embrace. “All I can do is worry! You didn’t see Percy on the night that Calliope and I found her. You didn’t see the marks that–that disgusting, shriveling worm left on her. You didn’t see the bruises and the blood. He beat her, Stephen. And not for the first time. Glastonbury finding her was the one thing she feared the most. And I–I let it happen.”
Desiring the Devil of Duncraven (Secret Wallflower Society Book 3) Page 2
