The knife skimmed lower and her breath caught.
“I am not afraid of you,” she bit out. “You are not death, but a pathetic rat.”
His laughter echoed from the cleaved rock – a hundred laughs for her brave words.
“Non, non, ma petite, I amLa Chauve-Souris. The bat of darkness. Silent. Deathly. But I believe… I believe for once I will not kill such life, such verve.” He shook his head. “Non. I will preserve it for my own.”
“You’ll hang for this. I’ll–”
“Tut, tut, as you English say. I think not.” He pulled her wrists tight as if shackles of bruising iron. “I know your name,ma petite, from your saddlebags. You havefamille, non? Noblefamille? Pretty friends?” He chuckled. “I am all Englishmen’s terror, and if I hear one word of this night from those pure…” The blade pressed to her lips and his head bent, warm breath at her ear.
He whispered vileness.
Terrible deeds he would inflict on her family.
Blood. Violation. Torture… Death.
She believed him.
Every unspeakable word.
And her body trembled – for Papa, her brother Ruan, her friends.
The demon’s head rose and he kissed her. A delicate press. “Keep silent, my little one, and I spare them all.” The lantern swung, igniting menace in his eyes. “But, to ensure you are mine for eternity…”
Piercing pain, such as she had never known, seared above her breast. A shredding without end.
And a murmur.
“Wait for me, won’t you,ma petite?”
Chapter One
A winter’s heart. A burden borne.
London. Six years later.
Chestnut-haired and tall, the groom bowed low over his beautiful bride’s hand, utter adoration smouldering in his eyes.
The awaiting guests applauded and cheered.
A debutante sighed, palm pressed to heart.
Jack’s gizzards suffered a nauseous lurch.
Another bloody wedding at St George’s. If he wasn’t more circumspect and continued in guiding others down the path to wedded bliss, he’d have no one left to roister with soon.
Who could he cajole to the Cyder Cellars of an evening? Or badger relentlessly until they divulged their problems? After all, he couldn’t pass every night in the lap of an agreeable woman – well, maybe that wasn’tstrictlytrue.
But too many of those he consideredclose friends were now resolutely caught in the parson’s mousetrap. Not that he objected to their brides; every single one of them was delightful and he enjoyed their company immensely, it was just–
“Lord Winterbourne. I’ve not seen you for an age. Where have you been?”
One of those said delightful brides stood glaring at him, arms crossed but with a mischievous grin.
“Aideen lovey, what a beauteous sight for these jaded eyes.” He kissed the Duchess of Rakecombe’s gloved hand with a flourish. “Afraid I got a bit caught up with a Tuscan Contessa this past month.” Best not mention that the nubile Contessa was privy to coveted state secrets which had required plundering…all for King and Country, of course. “How are you enjoying marital life with His Ruthlessness?”
They glanced across the wedding barouche to the black-clad Duke of Rakecombe, currently sneering at Lady Hardy as she warbled on about hats, oblivious to his thinned lips and impatient tapping of ebony walking cane.
