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“Why’s his lordship so angry?”
“He’s well,” Cyn replied, ducking back inside, still tasting the lie in her mouth. He wasn’t well. Not at all. What had happened to him?
She had to believe him, didn’t she? But what could the explanation be? She swiped at a tear caught on her lashes and sat down to await Nick’s return and whatever that might bring.
Rain dripped down his nose. Lightning flashed somewhere in the south. It was nearly full dark and he was stalking through the rain like an angry child.
And he’d been as foolish as a child to think that Cynthia would never ask about his scars. Still, he hadn’t known there’d been rumors among the servants here in Yorkshire. London, yes, though his parents had taken care to hire only three servants that first month, and all of them recommended for their discretion.
Did you try to kill yourself?
No one had ever asked him that question. Not even his parents had asked, though he’d pled and pled with them to believe he hadn’t. But now, after so many years of living with it, he was no longer sure of anything.
Had he meant to die? At some point, he had. At some point, it had seemed a great and blessed relief. Once his body had given up its struggle, dying had become peaceful. Rather like walking alone in a dark rain.
When Lancaster looked up from the muddy road he realized his anger had faded. Now he was only exhausted. And wet. The faint pinpoints of the carriage lamps glowed ahead, and he picked up the pace and headed toward them.
With only a dozen feet left to go, a vibration began to penetrate his legs. He stopped and cocked his head, quickly picking up the sound of approaching hoof beats. Adam jumped down from the seat.
“Who’s that?”
“I’m not sure,” Lancaster muttered. “But tell Miss Merrithorpe to stay hidden and close the curtains.”
Adam did as he was told before jogging over to stand beside his master. Jackson stood up on his box and drew out a rifle, and Lancaster nodded his approval before turning to face the coming rider.
The man slowed a good twenty yards from them and approached at a careful walk. He was alone, and Lancaster’s shoulders relaxed a bit. Not a band of highwaymen then. And he could tell by the straight line of the man’s back that it wasn’t Cyn’s stepfather either.
The rider stayed silent, so Lancaster held his tongue as well.
At first, the glow of the carriage lights only touched the horse, a big bay with a crooked white star that reached up to one eye. Then the rider’s boots were illuminated, then his legs, and when he dismounted, finally, his face.
A demon’s face, despite that it was neither ugly nor sinisterly beautiful. Lancaster slid one foot back before he stopped himself and stood straight.
This must be Bram, because the face…the face belonged to Richmond.
Skin crawling, he made his body stay still. He did not back away. He did not lunge forward. He did not let his stomach complete its somersault and toss its remains upon the dirt. Lancaster only watched those innocuous, perfectly bland features come closer. The only difference was the eyes, and he suddenly understood what the villagers had meant. Richmond’s eyes had sparkled with joviality in one guise, and glittered with heat in another. But Bram’s eyes…they were dead as dried wood. Not cruel or angry or sad. Dead.
When those eyes shifted to Adam and stayed there, Lancaster let himself move. He curled a hand over Adam’s shoulder and pulled him back from Bram. “Back to your post, Adam,” he murmured, his gut tight as a drum. He didn’t want this man’s gaze on the boy.
Adam threw him a puzzled look but eventually turned and shuffled back to the front of the carriage. Bram watched him go.
“I assume you did not stop to chat about the weather,” Lancaster said.
“Are you Lancaster?” the man grumbled.
“I am Lord Lancaster, yes.”
The dead gaze flicked down Lancaster’s body, then shifted to the carriage. “Miss Merrithorpe in there?”
“Do I know you, sir?”
“No, but I’ve heard about you.”
A wash of cold, separate from the drizzle, snuck beneath Lancaster’s coat to shiver over his skin. What did that mean?
“Lord Richmond wants his bride back.”
“Does he? I can’t imagine what that would mean to me.”
