Kresley Cole - [MacCarrick Brothers 03] (2 page)

“Then why me?” the wife asked breathlessly, angling for a compliment he wouldn’t give.

“I like married women better, find them more convenient.” He never heard from them again. A married woman readily faded into the past, one among many in his memory—as she should. And if her husband was weak enough and stupid enough to get cuckolded, then he deserved it, and Ethan would oblige.

“So all I am is a convenience?” She gave a mock pout as she began unbuttoning his shirt with deft fingers.

“Aye, precisely.”

His callous treatment seemed to be exciting her. “Say my name with your accent,” she whispered.

“Doona know it.”

She smiled. “It’s Sylvie—”

“Doona need to,” he interrupted sharply, making her gasp with desire.

He was used to women who liked a cold, domineering male in their beds, but he sensed she might want him to be worse than that. On his solitary ride over here, he’d had time to think about the situation, and his drunken mind said something wasn’t right about her.

Her perfume cloyed, but not more than that of the woman he’d had last night. She was tall, voluptuous, and dark-haired—the type that normally attracted him. Yet as she licked his chest, brushing his shirt away from his body, he again found that something about her was off-putting.

People had long said that Ethan had no more feelings than an animal. Well, right now pure instinct was telling him not to take her. He frowned as her mouth eased down his chest to his navel, her destination unmistakable.

But could the message possibly be louder than the Scotch and the promise of a below job?

Aye, it is
. He plucked her fingers from his trousers and stumbled back.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m leaving.” Bending for his shirt, he lost his balance, but he swiftly righted himself. He knew he’d been drinking too much lately. He was the oldest brother and head of a family that suffered, and the responsibility of it, and the inability to change it, weighed more heavily on him than anyone would dare suppose.

But his drinking was helping nothing.

“Leaving?” she cried. “You can’t be serious.”

He gave her one curt nod.

“Then why did you come here? What did I do?”

“No’ a thing.” Where the hell had he dropped his jacket? “Just doona care to any longer.”

“Tell me what you want, and I’ll do it.
Anything,
” she added plaintively, making him shudder in disgust.

A clinger.

Turning from her, he said, “Doona want
anything
from you. No’ anymore.”

“You cannot do this!” She shot to her feet and stormed over to him. “Just pass me over like a woman you’ve bought.” Her anger transformed the refined French inflection of her voice to a sharper, more common accent. Ethan had heard similar before—it was a lower-class accent. “Like some stray whore!”

“If the shoe fits…”

“No one treats me this way, not now.
No one!
” She darted in front of him. He turned from her once more, and she did it again, antagonizing him. Already his decision to leave was justified. “I’ll have you horsewhipped for this!”

Finally he spotted his jacket. “Get the hell out of my way.”

“I’ll whip you myself!”

“Temper, temper, wench.” He faced her with a sardonic expression. “Now I’m
really
no’ going to fuck you.”

She screeched, flying at him, nails raking down his face before he could shove her from him. He pressed his sleeve to his cheek and saw the crimson, stark against the white linen. “You goddamned bitch! You doona ken what you’re provoking.”

He headed for the door, but she beat on his back, screaming, “Do you know what I could have done to you?”

When Ethan whirled around, her face was streaming with tears, her eyes alight with fury. “Touch me again, and I’ll break my rule about no’ slapping crazed bitches who canna take no for an answer.”

“Do it, then!” Had her expression flashed with excitement?

To scare her so she’d leave him be, he made as if to backhand her—

The door crashed open.

There stood a gray-haired, enraged man.
Must be the aging husband
, Ethan thought with a tired exhalation as he lowered his hand.
Pistols at dawn and another death on my hands.

“He tried to force himself on me!” the wife shrieked, tears still streaming.

Ethan swung his gaze on her. “Are you mad, woman? You invited me here!”

More men filled the doorway, hardened ones—henchmen. A blond giant flanked the old husband, looking almost more enraged.

“Never!” she cried. “He must have followed me home from the inn tonight.”

The husband narrowed his eyes on Ethan’s face. Ethan swiped a hand over his cheek. “Oh, bloody hell,” he said wearily. “She scratched me when I wanted to leave.” Though Ethan was still drunk, even he recognized how ridiculous that sounded.

“Sylvie, are you injured?”
The husband’s grasping for this like a lifeline.

“You canna be serious. Can you no’ see she’s lying?” Ethan made a disgusted sound. “The witch asked me here, I vow it—”

“
No,
” she wailed loud enough to crack glass. “He tried to rape me, but I fought him. Do you see his face?”

Ethan gave her a look of pure fury, staring at her while telling the man, “Ask at the inn, ask anyone there. She invited me.” But she had been circumspect. Would any of the patrons have seen them together in that hallway for the brief moments when she’d approached him?

The woman shook her head fiercely. “My maid was with me at the inn and when we came home. Ask Flora! Ask her!” Touching the back of her hand against her forehead, she sank to the edge of the bed. “
Oh, God
,” she whispered, “
I was so afraid
.”

Ethan gaped in amazement.
Christ, she’s good
—

With a bellow, the old man charged for Ethan. Habit took over. Ethan threw a fist, breaking his nose—blood spurted.

“I’ll see you in Newgate for this!” the husband roared, cupping his face.

It was important for Ethan to remember something. What was it? “Goddamn it, I did nothing to this woman…and she instigated it all.”

“Get him!” the old man thickly commanded his men.

At that instant, the answer Ethan sought came to him, and he lunged for his jacket.

A blow crashed against the back of his skull. His face pounded the floor. Fists rained down again and again, kicks to the gut…. He fought the blackness for as long as he could; he had to explain, had to defend himself.

He dimly heard the bitch crying to her husband, worrying about the scandal if this were to go to trial…their reputations, their standing…other husbands with his power would take care of this themselves.

Ethan knew that in this isolated part of the country the lords were their own entities, laws unto themselves if they chose, always with henchmen willing to do black deeds. And they hated strangers, much less foreigners.

The note, his deliverance, was stowed in his jacket pocket just feet from him. He tried to speak but could only grunt in pain. An attempt to reach for it earned him a booted kick to the chest.

Forcing his eyes open, he saw that she was crying hysterically, seeming to believe her own lies. “With you and Brymer gone, I was an easy target.”

The cuckold was soothing her, wrapping her in his coat. “I should never have left you—”

“Th-that fiend was in the house with me, with
Maddy
!” she added significantly. Whoever this Maddy was, the mere mention of her in this context made the old man swing his gaze on Ethan. Seeming dumb with rage, eyes glazed over with it, he assured her they’d take care of this on their own—no one would have to know. Ethan felt true fear rippling through him.

They’d make sure the Scottish bastard never raped another woman as long as he lived.

Castration.
Cold sweat broke out over Ethan’s body; they were going to take a knife to him.

The old man hesitated, then gave a nod. “Brymer, take him out back. See it done.”

This Brymer was the giant with the killing look in his eyes. “It will be a pleasure.” He hauled Ethan up, dealing a punishing blow to his jaw. Ethan tried to shake it off, but blackness consumed him….

He woke to the bite of a rope cinched around his wrists. A bone-deep ache radiated from his shoulders up to his clenched fingers. He tried to open his eyes—only one swollen lid would crack enough for him to see—and found himself strung up to the rafter of some type of stable. A blood-soaked gag filled his mouth.

Ethan saw a tall, burly man sitting on the edge of a stool that was about to buckle under his great weight. His meaty leg bounced with nervous energy as he cast Ethan furtive, guilty glances. The man knew. He knew Ethan was being wronged. Of course, the wife would have done things like this before. Ethan yelled behind his gag and grappled against his bonds, frenzied to tell him about the note.

From behind him, he heard a door creak open. Brymer asked, “Is he awake yet, Tully?”

“Only just,” Tully said, heaving his big frame to his feet. “I was thinking…m-maybe one of us should ride to the inn, and just ask a few questions.”

“Van Rowen wants us to do a job on him,” Brymer said. “So that’s what we’re going to do.” Brymer was eager for it.

Van Rowen
. Why did the name sound familiar? When Ethan got out of this, he would kill Van Rowen, ripping him apart with his bare hands. The man had no idea what he’d just brought down on himself and his entire family—

Ethan heard the unmistakable sound of a blade being unsheathed, and he fought to free his hands.

“But, Brymer, what would it hurt to ride—”

“I just returned from the inn. No one saw anything untoward.” Brymer moved into Ethan’s field of vision. “They just saw Mrs. Van Rowen eating a meal with Flora for about an hour before they left.” He picked his teeth with the knifepoint. “Coachman swears he saw no one else and drove them home alone, as does Flora.”

“But sometimes…it seems Mrs. Van Rowen might—”

“On the other hand,” Brymer continued, ignoring Tully’s words, “this one here’s a
foreigner
, swilling spirits. The barmaid said he’s a mean drunk and a Scottish brute.”

That spiteful bitch…just because I passed her over…

“His die is cast, Tully. But as for you, you’ll either follow your orders—or you’ll take yourself off Van Rowen lands tonight.”

No, no.
Ethan could pay him a fortune
not
to do this.

Tully’s shoulders slumped.

No, goddamn it, no!

“Hold his head,” Brymer ordered.

Tully did as he was told, taking Ethan’s head in his thick arms. Ethan fought against the grip, spitting curses behind the gag.

“Wh-what do you plan to do?”

“First off, I’m going to finish what Mrs. Van Rowen started,” Brymer said with a nod at the marks on Ethan’s face. “I bet the ladies fancy his looks. They won’t ever again after tonight. Of course, that’ll be the least of his worries.”

When Ethan felt the cold blade against the heated skin on his right cheek, he twisted, using all his remaining strength to break free. Nothing.

The knife sliced cleanly; Ethan roared in pain.

“Hold him still!” Brymer snapped.

“I’m trying!” Tully clenched harder. “He’s a big bastard!”

Brymer cut and cut until blood coated Ethan’s neck. Soon Ethan was numb all over, barely conscious.

“What are you doing?” Tully asked.

“If you take the strip from the middle, it will never heal right when he gets sewn up.”

The desperate need to fight was there, burning in him, but his leaden body wouldn’t cooperate. When Brymer was at last done, Tully released Ethan, and his head lolled forward.

Brymer took him by the hair, yanking him up to smile at his handiwork. “Come look, Tully.”

The man did. His eyes went wide, and he retched repeatedly before he lunged away, vomiting in the hay.

When Ethan saw the strip of skin lying in the dirt, blackness dotted his vision. He silently vowed,
I’m going to destroy you. You’re all going to die as slowly as you’ve done this to me….
Then his eyes slid closed.

He was roused by an anguished bellow sounding from the manor house. The bitch began screaming as well, a series of shrieks growing louder in succession.

A door slammed…someone ran toward them…seconds later a servant burst through the doorway of the stable, gasping, “
Stop! Let him free!”

In a flash of clarity, Ethan comprehended what had happened. Another of the bitch’s screams rent the quiet of the night, then sudden silence.

Ethan laughed behind his gag, crazed. Wetness leaked from his eyes.

Van Rowen had found the note.

One

London
Summer 1856

E
than had long grown used to the sinking expressions people cast him when they realized it was he who darkened their doorsteps—but in the East End rookeries this tendency seemed even more pronounced.

Many saw Ethan and ran.

The sound of his boots booming across wet cobblestones was all Ethan heard as he chased a drunken cockney—one among many of his sources of information.

Lunging forward, Ethan clamped the cockney’s shoulders, tossing him headfirst into the side of a tenement building. The man collapsed into a stunned heap.

Hauling him to his feet, Ethan drew his pistol, pressing the muzzle against the man’s temple. “Where’s Davis Grey?”

“I ’aven’t seen ’im.” He hissed in a breath between the copious gaps in his teeth. “I swear to ye, MacCarrick!”

Ethan casually cocked his gun. The drunk knew of his reputation, knew Ethan would just as easily shoot him as not back in this dark alley. “Then why did you run?”

“B-because ye scare the piss out o’ me.”

Understandable.

“I ’eard Grey was in Portugal, with an ’unger for opium. And that ’e might be returnin’. That’s all. I swear it!”