by Shayla Black
Now seeing the estate through Ice’s eyes, a wizard who had grown up in a series of caves … Duke winced. Ice couldn’t possibly understand his responsibilities.
“I always thought Bram had ostentatiousness down to a fine art, but you make him look like an amateur.”
“I didn’t decorate—” Frustration crashed in, and Duke raked a hand through his hair. “Never mind. Focus on Felicia. I don’t want her out of our sight. The Anarki may appear at any moment. We’ll try this your way, but I must persuade Mason to call off this wedding so we can get everyone else out of here.”
Ice raised a dark, bushy brow. “How?”
“No idea.” Regardless of what anyone said, Mason would likely refuse.
Damn it, Duke wished he could simply confess that he was a wizard. But Mason would only think him a nutter. Even if he could convince his brother, Mason wouldn’t even abide having a Liberal Democrat in the house, so Duke couldn’t imagine what he’d think about someone magical.
With a slap on the back, Ice shot him a pitying look. “Good luck. Would you like me to fetch Felicia?”
Duke’s first instinct was to refuse. He wanted to be the one to watch over her, keep her safe from danger. But that wouldn’t stop Mathias from crashing this wedding and potentially hurting his family or guests in his quest to find the Untouchable. He had to empty Lowechester Hall. While he wouldn’t be skimping on the drama, he had to hope the plan saved lives. And that he could avoid the tempting Felicia as much as possible.
“Yes. I’ll have a word with Mason.”
“Make it thirty seconds or less.” Ice bounded down the hall and up the stairs toward the family’s rooms.
Head swimming, Duke darted toward the chapel.
Mason stormed toward him, greeting him at the door. “Where the hell have you been? We were set to start ten minutes ago. You should have been lined up in the anteroom long before. Your friends are disturbing the guests. Mum can’t find Felicia, and somehow I know you’re to blame.”
Entirely. “I’ll address my friends. Felicia is fixing her lipstick.” And avoiding me. “But I must talk to—”
“Did you have anything to do with her lipstick being mussed?” Mason’s dark eyes narrowed.
No, but God, he’d love that. The thought of kissing her made him hard all over. Again. Duke tugged at the bottom of his dinner jacket. “No. She seemed flustered when I ran into her in the hall. But that’s not important. Listen to me, Mason. Felicia is in danger.”
***
In her hiding place behind an armoire door, Felicia listened as Hurstgrove’s words penetrated her brain. She clapped a hand over her mouth to hold in a gasp. Truth bathed His Grace’s expression. The absence of a stench or a burning belly told her senses that he believed every word he said.
Danger?
Was he delusional? Mistaken?
Or, God forbid, right?
After slipping past the scary, stubble-headed man, Felicia had sneaked back here. Thankfully, no one had noticed her lurking in the shadowed corner of the corridor. And here she would stay until she was certain Hurstgrove wouldn’t guess that she knew his secret.
Biting her lip, Felicia held her questions. Mason, a barrister well trained in cross-examination, would ask what was necessary. She’d listen and smell and decipher truths from lies. Besides, Mason wouldn’t be rattled by Hurstgrove’s compelling demeanor or the fact that he wasn’t human. Felicia would bet a year’s salary Mason had no clue his brother was anything but a normal man.
“What?” her fiancé exploded. “Danger? Of what sort?”
“Felicia is the target of a madman. He will take her from you and by the time he’s done, she’ll beg for death. Any moment, he and his … terrorists will descend.”
Felicia prayed to smell the awful stench that turned her stomach. Only the roses and jasmine of her wedding flowers wafted to her nose. Still, Hurstgrove’s perception didn’t make it reality. She prayed he was wrong.
“Madman? Terrorists?” Mason scowled. “How would you know this? Do you have any proof?”
Hurstgrove paused. “I met with one of his underlings, who told me—”
“You, meeting a terrorist’s underling?” Mason shot him a skeptical glare.
Felicia thought it unlikely as well. Except her ability told her his words were fact.
Hurstgrove hesitated. “I know him through my friends. Listen to—”
“Do you?” Mason cocked his head. “The skull-capped thug or the big bloke with the sword?”
“Neither. Did you hear me? This madman will torture and kill her.”
Again, Hurstgrove told the truth as he knew it. Dear God … Why her? Felicia tried to grapple for any reason why she would have come to a madman’s attention. Retribution for some criminal Mason had helped put behind bars?
“So this person offered you information? And you believed him? Without proof?” Mason scoffed.
“Damn it! He has no reason to lie.”
“Just as you have no reason to ruin my wedding with this ridiculous assertion?” Mason’s voice rang thick with sarcasm. “How could this criminal possibly know Felicia?”
“I … don’t know.”
The scent of Hurstgrove’s lie smacked Felicia in the face. He knew exactly how this villain had come to be aware of her. So why was he keeping the answer to himself?
“She is a bloody nursery school teacher. I’ve known you to go to ridiculous lengths in the past to bed a woman who made your cock twitch, but this is low, even for you,” Mason growled, then shook his head. “A terrorist looking for Felicia. Don’t take me for stupid.”
Hurstgrove hesitated, looking agitated and bleak. “I’m not making this up!”
“Rubbish! You cooked up this fucking charade to ruin our wedding.”
“I’m trying to protect her,” His Grace insisted. “Damn it, we don’t have time to—”
“If she’s in danger, why didn’t you come forward before now?” Mason raised a dark brow, back in barrister mode.
“I just learned of it an hour ago. Mason—”
“Why did you want the guest list if you knew she was in danger?”
Hurstgrove paced the elegant floor, moonlight bathing his strong profile. Felicia’s heart stuttered at the sight. The most insane urge to get close to him, curl up against him, press her mouth to his, overcame her. She shoved the school-girlish reaction aside. He wasn’t human. Her life could be in peril. What the hell was she doing lusting after the man?
“It’s complicated,” the duke finally answered.
Mason raised a dark brow. “I’ll manage.”
Hurstgrove raked a hand through his mussed hair. “We’ve no time for this now unless you want her to die.”
“She’ll be in a whole other sort of danger with you. I’m not budging until you give me proof.”
His Grace clenched his jaw, telling her he fought long and hard for patience. “I knew what they sought, not who. I’d hoped it wasn’t Felicia …”
But it was, as least in Hurstgrove’s mind. Fresh panic set in. Who was this madman? What could he possibly want with her?
Mason scoffed. “How thick do you think I am? What does she have that a terrorist could possibly want?”
Hurstgrove hesitated. “I’ll explain when she’s out of danger. Now, I must take her into hiding—”
“You won’t take her anywhere.”
“Felicia will die if she doesn’t leave with me now!”
She watched their rapid exchange, her heart pounding. Everything Hurstgrove said was true, so she should leave. Felicia stepped forward to say as much, but Mason cut in first.
“By all means, you and your shady friends go. If Felicia needs protecting, that is my job and my right. After the wedding—”
“She may be dead before you finish the ceremony! These aren’t your average thugs. You can’t protect her.”
Felicia hung back as a new possibility washed over her. Were these terrorists non-human like Hurstgrove? That possi
bility showered her in a horrific wave. Dear God, if so, who else but Hurstgrove could keep her safe?
“You have the audacity to suggest we postpone the wedding?” Mason thundered.
“I’m not suggesting; I’m insisting.”
If she was truly in danger, Hurstgrove’s plan sounded not only logical, but imperative. Yet … if she didn’t marry Mason tonight, would she ever? Or would that door close? Without a husband, how would she achieve her dreams of her own home and family? Then again, none of that would matter if she was dead.
“You bastard.” Mason hurled. “You’ve inherited a title, an estate, a vast fortune, and have the world at your feet. You shag a different woman every night. I want one for the rest of my life, to protect and cherish. You merely seek to add another notch to your bedpost.”
“That’s not true.”
Murder crossed Mason’s face. “So, you don’t want Felicia?”
Hurstgrove frowned, hesitated. “No.”
A moment later, an overwhelming stench hit her, so debilitating, she clutched her stomach. Her eyes watered. Hurstgrove did want her—very badly. Felicia swallowed. His response was like a flash fire, blistering her veins. She tried to push her reaction aside. Foolish. Inappropriate. Destructive.
How much more complicated could her life become? Loved by one brother, desired by the other, who wasn’t even human …
Suddenly, Hurstgrove’s friends crowded into the corridor like a walking wall of testosterone. Individually, they each spelled trouble. Together, they looked downright menacing.
The trio sauntered toward Mason.
“Where is she?” His Grace demanded of Ice.
He smiled tightly. “Here in the room, eavesdropping on you.”
Felicia gnawed her lip. She’d done nothing to give herself away, but he might not be human either. Did Ice know where she’d hidden? Fear detonated in her belly.
Then the blond one spoke. “Time is up. Duke, now.”
“Then go,” Mason spat and turned back to Hurstgrove. “I will not postpone my wedding based on hearsay. I’m marrying the woman I love tonight. And you won’t stop me.”
“I regret that saving Felicia will further deteriorate our relationship, but not enough to risk her. You shouldn’t either, if you truly love her.”
“How dare you suggest …” Fury etched his face, then his voice turned deadly calm. “Leave. You’re no longer invited.”
“Throwing me out of my own house will not keep her safe. This … criminal is more depraved than you can possibly imagine.”
Another truth.
Felicia had more than enough information to be certain of her next move. Time to speak up—and make her choice.
“Why me?” she asked, stepping out of the armoire, into the light.
Hurstgrove whirled toward her, visibly relieved to see her in one piece. “I’ll explain later.” Then he reached for her. “If you want to live, take my hand and come with me now.”
His gaze was electric. Everything jumbled inside her. The security Mason gave her clashed with the foreign excitement his half brother wrought. She didn’t like the way Hurstgrove made her feel, vulnerable and so aware of her femininity, fragile and desirable at once. She’d elected to marry Mason in part because he never engendered such feelings in her. He would make a stable partner, a wonderful father. Hurstgrove was rich, titled, good-looking, and notoriously good in bed—built for a night, not forever.
“Felicia,” Mason said sharply. “You don’t believe this rubbish, do you?”
She’d never told him about her bullshit barometer. In fact, she’d never told anyone but Deirdre. Most people would never believe such a thing, and Mason, who made a good living by dealing in evidence and facts, was less likely than most.
“I have a … sense that he’s being honest.”
“Are you mad? He constantly seduces women, no doubt with lies. This is absurd!”
At her side, Hurstgrove tensed, then glanced at Bram, who nodded. What sort of signal was that?
In the next moment, His Grace surged forward and hooked an arm around her waist, lifting her, wedding dress and all, into his arms and against his chest. Lest she fall, Felicia instinctively locked her arms around the strong column of his neck. Her bridal bouquet slipped from her fingers and fell to the floor.
He strode toward the exit at the rear of the house without a backward glance.
“What the hell are you doing?” she asked.
No answer. He simply marched away from his friends, her fiancé, their wedding.
She wriggled in his grasp. “Put me down! I said I was inclined to believe you. I never agreed that I would come along.”
His arms tightened around her. “Sorry. I won’t risk you.”
Hurstgrove was abducting her? Her breath stuttered, and her belly turned over again. In that moment, it wasn’t only her safety she feared for.
Felicia opened her mouth to protest, but the sincerity of his dark eyes silenced her.
If not for the danger, she would have fought him, punching, biting, scratching … anything to avoid putting herself in his path and potentially under his spell. But His Grace risked family censure and scandal to protect her from a deadly threat. And he wanted her.
Which motivated him most?
“Put her down now!” Mason demanded.
Hurstgrove didn’t slow his pace a bit. “Sorry. Trying to pop out the back before the paparazzi catch on. I assume you prefer not to have pictures of this splashed across the rags?”
Felicia glanced over his shoulder to see his friends restraining Mason. They were “other” too, she suspected. None of them looked mad or otherwise deranged, but rather almost too powerful to be human.
“You fucking bastard! Bring my bride back!” Mason bellowed.
His mother appeared at the bottom of the stairs, mouth agape. “Simon!”
“I’ll ring you later, Mum,” His Grace threw over his shoulder, trying to shield Felicia as paparazzi flashbulbs began to stream through the windows and lit up the corridors. Most likely, these images would be front page news. Horror gripped her as she buried her face in Hurstgrove’s shoulder—and inhaled a complex scent of sandalwood, citrus, and man that went straight to her head.
At the clatter of shoes against the marble tiles, Felicia raised her head, fastening her gaze on the chapel doors in the distance. Most of her guests stared now, faces slack with a shock she discerned even at a distance. Some snapped pictures with their mobiles. Her friends and coworkers all stared, mouths agape. Hurstgrove cursed.
“Stop!” she ordered. “If danger is coming, Mason—”
“Can’t help or protect you. You are the target. Mason can only be a liability. If you want him safe, leave him here.”
It sounded like a convenient excuse, and she would have thought so if not for the absence of any cloying, burning scent.
“This is mad!”
“And the tabloids will eat the scandal up, which I fear may expose you to …” Hurstgrove paused, sighed regretfully. “Too late now. I know what this monster is capable of and I promise, I won’t let him touch you.”
She absorbed his protective vow. Why would the self-absorbed playboy care?
“W-when can I return home? To Mason.”
He grimaced as he pushed his way into a small parlor, crossed the room in a handful of steps, then muscled his way through French doors and outside.
Freezing air pelted her, slipping under her dress insidiously. Fresh snow dusted the ground. Wind whipped through her curls, tearing at her upswept do, penetrating her lace sleeves with chill. Hurstgrove wrapped his arms more tightly around her. The warmth of his skin seeped in. His male scent pummeled her senses again. She heard his beating heart, his even breaths. He felt so human.
“Perhaps a few days.” He shook his head. “I don’t know.”
An ugly truth. The idea of being so close to Mason’s compelling half brother for even that long petrified her.
“Over there!” she hea
rd through the wind’s howl, then looked up to see a swarm of paparazzi sprinting behind the estate, across the snowy lawn and toward them, flashbulbs popping with each step.
Hurstgrove picked up the pace, darting for the outbuilding that held his autos. He showed no signs of tiring. Under his tuxedo, he was solid muscle.
“I can walk,” she protested.
“The snow will ruin your dress and shoes.”
Likely, but a slight stench told her that wasn’t the only reason he carried her. “Be reasonable. I’m not exactly a feather. If we’re rushing to safety, and you’re going to fatigue—”
“Not for some time.”
Under her hands, his shoulders and arms were spine-tinglingly hard. Felicia shoved the thought away. “Clearly, you exercise, but—”
“Marrok is like the most demanding personal trainer. On fast forward. In an endless loop. Trust me; he’s ensured this is little effort.”
“I understand that I’m in danger. I won’t run from you.”
He shot her a regretful glance. “Sorry. I’m not convinced.”
Before she could argue, Hurstgrove shouldered his way inside the building, then kicked the door closed behind, stooping to lock it. As he turned, she saw Bram. How had he beaten them here?
He sat behind the wheel of a very expensive black Italian sports car. Convertible. Who owned such an impractical vehicle in a climate that got nearly as much rain as sun?
A duke.
Bram revved the engine, then ducked out of the driver’s seat to stand beside it. “Get her in. You’d best leave quickly. I have a bad feeling.”
His Grace strode to the passenger door, slid her into the seat, buckled her in, and shut her inside. Black leather. Flawless. Powerful. Imposing.
She grabbed at the door handle, scrambling to find a way out, but Hurstgrove blocked her path on one side, Bram on the other. “Agreed. I’d rather use my … usual method of transportation.”