Claiming the Courtesan

“This serves no purpose,” Verity said as calmly as she could. Pleading could never succeed. Perhaps defiance would. She cursed the husky edge to her voice but couldn’t do anything about it. “I told you—His Grace and I have parted forever. He has sworn he won’t pursue me.”

“Even if that’s so, I deserve some recompense for the trouble you’ve given me.” The duchess’s voice was exultant.

“By consigning me to torture and rape?”

“These things are all relative.” The woman stroked the edge of the blade and considered her victim in the fading light. “I rather think I’ll take out an eye.”

The gorge rose in Verity’s throat. “You’d leave me blind?” she gasped in revulsion.

“No. Only one eye. I want you to see what I do. It’s dangerous to range yourself against your betters, my girl.”

“You’re not my better,” Verity spat. Fury clawed at her fear. Fury alone gave her the strength to stand stiffly and await the blade’s descent. “You’ll never get away with this. I’ll bring the full force of the law against you.”

Astonishingly, chillingly, the duchess laughed, the sound tinkling and sweet in the still air. “I’m the Duchess of Kylemore. You’re my son’s discarded, lowborn lover. The law will pay you no heed at all. Unless, that is, I decide to have you transported for prostitution.”

“You’re a devil from hell,” Verity gasped in horror.

Let it be quick, she prayed, although she knew the duchess intended to draw out every last strand of torment. Fortitude was all Verity had left. Please let it not desert her now. She closed her eyes and waited.

The duchess was so close that Verity heard the slide of a silk sleeve against her bodice as she drew her hand back, ready to strike.

Then, in the breathless pause, a cold, commanding, beloved voice pierced her all-encompassing fog of dread.

“Shed one drop of her blood and I’ll shoot you where you stand.”

Chapter 25

Kylemore’s clipped words wrenched Verity from the lightless bastion where she’d retreated.

It couldn’t be true. He couldn’t be here to save her. Such unlikely heroics belonged only in fairy tales. Fear and grief must have sent her mad.

But when she opened dazed eyes, he strode, arrogant as ever, out of the overhanging trees toward her. And how could she doubt he was real when the force of his rage made the very air quiver?

He was dressed completely in black, from his silk shirt to his long coat that swept the ground. Even the boots kicking up dust with every purposeful step were black.

Against the unrelieved darkness of his clothing, his face was pale and taut with barely curbed fury. One elegant hand rested negligently on the hilt of the sword that hung from his waist, and the other leveled a heavy pistol at his mother and Smithson.

With a gasp, the duchess spun around. “Justin, don’t be ridiculous. You cannot threaten your own mother.”

She sounded perfectly reasonable. The ecstatically vengeful harpy of a few moments ago had disappeared. Quickly, she hid the deadly silver knife in her skirts.

Savagery tinged the duke’s smile as he s

topped a few feet away from her. “I can and do threaten you, madam.” He looked across to where his mother’s servant held Verity. “Have they harmed you, mo cridhe?”

“No,” Verity whispered. Trembling with reaction, she focused a tear-filled gaze on Kylemore.

She was safe now. He’d never let anyone hurt her. She knew that as she knew she needed breath to live.

“Your face is bleeding,” he pointed out with a contained gentleness that sent a cold shiver down her spine.

“It’s only a scratch,” she said unsteadily.

Compared to what the duchess had planned for her, the sullenly seeping cut hardly mattered. Still, she saw anguish flare in his eyes as they rested on the injury.

“I hope so. Or someone will pay dearly.” He masked the flash of emotion and returned his relentless focus to his mother.

The duchess’s face tightened with scornful defiance as she met his stare. “You wouldn’t harm me. You don’t have the stomach for it.”