An Extraordinary Lord

by Anna Harrington

  He shifted back and glanced down at Danker’s dead body. “What the hell happened?”

  Solemnly, she moved past him, bent down, and pulled her knife from Danker’s body. She paused only to wipe the blade clean on the shoulder of Danker’s jacket before rising to her feet.

  “All debts have been repaid,” she told him quietly, her voice raw.

  He nodded as if that cryptic answer explained everything. “Then let’s get out of here.” He flinched as the sound of shattering wood and glass echoed down the street. “Now.”

  Twenty-five

  Merritt followed only a pace behind Veronica as she led them through the crush of rioters. No longer attempting to control the riot or stop the destruction that continued to break out, their only thought now was escape.

  The mob had circled back and engulfed them, and hundreds of rioters filled the streets around them. All of them wielded torches and weapons, including the women and the youngest of boys who had joined with the crowd. They attacked the fronts of buildings, smashing shutters and windows, breaking gas lamps, ripping down wrought iron railings, and bashing apart anything they could. Fires had been set in their wake by those among the mob whose frustrations weren’t appeased by brute force, while others broke into buildings to steal what they could find inside. Filipe’s men had lost control over the riot, and chaos reigned.

  Damnation! This wasn’t at all what he’d hoped for tonight. Dread and anger rose sickeningly inside him that he couldn’t stop it, and he prayed to whatever god would listen that no innocents were hurt, that the only damage would be the destruction of property that could all be replaced. His only consolation was that the mob hadn’t attacked the barricades as planned. The slaughter of those lives had been stopped, and tonight’s riot would be the last for a very long time to come.

  “What happened at the barricades?” Veronica called out over her shoulder as she veered away from two men recklessly swinging cutlasses in the air.

  “The soldiers didn’t fire,” he answered succinctly and glanced behind them to keep an eye on what was happening at their rear. They couldn’t afford to have their only path of retreat cut off, not when the way forward grew more precarious with every passing minute.

  She stopped and turned back toward him with relief. “Then it’s all over now.”

  With a grimace, Merritt took her arm and pulled her onward with him. “Not even close.”

  Only when the sun rose high enough for the morning light to fill the streets and chase away all cover of darkness would it end. The City had at least another hour to endure before the mob vanished back into the rabbit warren of alleys and rookeries from which it had emerged, and God only knew how much destruction and violence would be wrought before then.

  But this would be the last of Scepter’s riots. That much was certain.

  “This way.” He guided her across the street to a road that ran past Gray’s Inn and would take them south to High Holborn Street. From there, it would be an easy trek west to the Armory where she would be safe until—

  His gaze landed on one of the rioters directly ahead, and he halted.

  Clinging to the shadows at the edge of the street, the man was revealed by the flickering torchlight of two young boys who sped past to catch up to the front of the riot. Only a moment of light shone on his face, but that was enough. The same broad build, the same scar marring the side of the man’s face from jaw to temple—God’s mercy, it was him.

  The man who’d killed Joanna.

  His heart stopped, the enormity of the moment squeezing around it like a vise. When it jarred to life again a second later, the pain was brutal. So was the need for revenge that consumed him in a wildfire of hatred and grief. He loosened his grip, and Veronica’s arm slipped free of his hold as she walked on toward safety.

  He turned back after the man. Each step pounded as fiercely as his pulse, both fueled by murderous intent.

  “Merritt?” she called out and stopped to turn back for him. “What’s wrong?”

  “Go on without me.”

  “No.”

  “Go to the Armory, Veronica.”

  “Hell no.”

  He hurled a quelling look at her but continued to walk away. “You’ll be safe there. I’ll meet up with you later.”

  “I’m not leaving you here.”

  “Go!” he snapped out the angry order. This wasn’t her fight; it was his alone. It had been simmering for the past five years, but now the need for vengeance boiled inside him. So did the drive to put an end to the years of hunting. And an end to the bastard who’d murdered Joanna. “God damn it, go!”

  He turned away from her and the wounded look on her face. Then he broke into a loping jog to move as quickly as he dared after the man without calling attention to himself.

  He didn’t look back. Veronica didn’t understand. He didn’t expect her to, but there was no time to explain. He’d promised Joanna that night when he’d held her lifeless body in his arms that he would find the man who killed her, and for every drop of spilt blood, Merritt would cause the bastard pain. Blinding. Insufferable. Damn him to hell. Where he belonged.

  He sheathed his sword and pulled out his knife. He kept the blade low and unseen at his side and the handle firmly gripped in his palm as he followed the man down the street. His pulse pounded deafeningly in his ears as he drew nearer, and his blood burned hot as it coursed through his veins. Vengeance drove each breath he took. He moved closer to the man, so close now—

  He lunged. He tackled the man around the waist and propelled him forward against the building.

  But the man twisted out of his grasp. He slammed Merritt into the wall with a fierce shove, then ducked beneath the sweep of the knife as Merritt struck out in white-hot fury. But the rioter didn’t dodge the hard punch of Merritt’s left fist as he swung it with every ounce of his strength. He caught the man’s jaw and snapped back his head, sending him staggering from the force of the blow toward the doorway where the door lay twisted half-open on its hinges from the mob’s earlier attack.

  With no way to escape down the street, the man darted inside the dark building.

  Merritt chased after him. He would not get away. Not this time.

  Darkness filled the building; the dim morning sunlight and torchlight from the rioters were unable to penetrate through its shuttered windows. Yet the place was alive with shadows and ghosts, and they antagonized him with every step and searching glance he took.

  Like the skilled predator he’d become, Merritt tightened his grip on his knife as he moved forward into the darkness. He carefully approached the wooden stairs. The only place the man could have gone was up, and he stalked after him. No capture. No quarter. No trial. I will kill you where you stand…

  A shadow darted across the top of the stairs, and a dark object hurtled toward him. Merritt held up his arm but not in time to stop the glancing blow of an old wooden cask. It grazed his temple and cut his brow before it slammed into his shoulder. It wasn’t enough to stop him but more than enough to escalate his anger.

  With a growl, he charged up the stairs three at a time.

  The man raced up through the warehouse, and Merritt pursued. The door at the top of the stairs slammed shut in front of him, but he dropped back onto his rear foot and kicked as hard as he could in the center of the panel. The kick broke the latch, and the door banged against the wall so hard that the rusted hinges shattered with a pop as loud as gunfire.

  Merritt charged through the door, out onto the roof, and directly toward the man. He lowered his shoulder and plowed it into the man’s stomach. He propelled him backward, only for the attacker to find his footing and fight back. They struggled back and forth across the roof with punches landing with dull thuds on each other’s bodies, with Merritt unable to find the space to swing his knife and slice the man’s throat.

  “You murdered her, you
son of a bitch!” Like a man possessed, Merritt threw punch after punch with his left hand, slash after slash with the knife in his right, and drove the man against the low balustrade framing the edge of the roof.

  He charged relentlessly forward on top of him and forced the man to bend backward over the railing. He shoved his right forearm beneath the man’s chin, and his knife blade glinted in the moonlight just inches from the man’s throat.

  “You killed her,” he ground out and shoved his forearm against the man’s windpipe. “And now I’m going to kill you.”

  The man’s eyes flared wide as he clawed desperately at Merritt’s arm to free himself, but Merritt only stepped closer and forced the man farther back over the balustrade. The man darted a terrified glance over the edge of the roof at the ground two stories below. Good. Let the bastard be afraid. Let him experience the same terror as Joanna when she was ripped from the carriage. Let him feel the same pain she did when his body broke against the stones below.

  He pointed his knife at the man’s belly, drew a deep breath—

  “Merritt—no.”

  The soft voice behind him arrested his hand, and he froze, the tip of the blade poking into the man’s gut. Veronica.

  Her presence slammed into him like a punch. She didn’t belong here. She was the present, not the past. “Leave.”

  “No.”

  “You’re not needed here.”

  “So much more than you realize.” In her short pause, he could almost see her arching her brow in that chastising manner she had. “Did you really think I’d let you go off alone?”

  His heart slammed into his throat, but his eyes never left those of the bastard in front of him. The end was so close now that he could taste it, like acid on his tongue. Why wouldn’t she leave and let him finish this?

  “He killed Joanna,” he explained hoarsely. “It’s him. I finally found the bastard.”

  Thank God she didn’t ask if he were certain, or if he could have possibly made a mistake and caught the wrong man. Five years of memories and nightmares and always seeing that man’s face with every stroke of a sword, every punch he learned to throw, every time he sharpened his knives, every step he took through the dark city in his hunt—he knew this man’s face as well as he knew his own.

  “Now it all ends.” Each panting, fear-filled breath the man took pulsed against the tip of Merritt’s knife. How easy it would be to simply step forward and plunge the blade deep into his gut. It would be as smooth as slicing into butter, not at all the hard crack of the hammer the bastard had used against Joanna. “He deserves to die.”

  “Yes, he does.” Her voice grew closer. “But at Newgate. Not here.”

  “Here seems as good a place as any.” His left hand tightened its hold on the man’s throat as he leaned in and dangled the man even farther over the balustrade. With one small push, he would tumble over the edge. “Or on the stones below.”

  The man’s eyes grew wide with terror, and his hands clawed at Merritt’s arms to somehow make him release him. But he would never let go now. Not when he was only heartbeats from finally driving away the darkness.

  “The last time I checked, you were still a barrister.” She stopped directly behind him. “When did you also become judge and jury?”

  That rankled, more than he would admit. But she didn’t understand, could never understand—

  “Your whole life you’ve put your faith in the law, in its integrity.” Her hand slid up his back to his shoulder, and the heat of her touch sizzled through his clothes and into his flesh. “So put it there now. Arrest him and let the courts bring justice.” Her fingers squeezed into his tense muscle, and her soft voice tickled at his ear as she leaned in close to his shoulder, her cheek next to his. “But don’t make a mockery of all you believe in because of this man. He doesn’t deserve to have that power over you.” Her hand slid down his right arm. His muscles trembled beneath the brush of her fingertips. “So don’t you dare give it to him.”

  He shuddered when her hand closed around his on the knife. But he refused to surrender it to her, refused to concede now that he was so close—

  “You’re a good and decent man, Merritt Rivers. That’s why Joanna loved you.” Her fingers squeezed his, and she said so softly that only his heart heard, “That’s why I love you, too.”

  Her words shot through him like a bullet, and he shuddered. She loved him… The black revenge that had consumed him for so long lifted like a fog, and in its place came Veronica.

  Slowly, he loosened his grip and let her take the knife from him.

  As she straightened away, she grazed her lips against his cheek. The warmth of that affectionate gesture blew through him like a whirlwind and left him breathless and trembling. “But you still infuriate the daylights out of—”

  Without warning, the murderer lunged.

  He shoved Merritt aside and hurled himself away from the balustrade to charge straight at Veronica. Caught off guard, she didn’t react fast enough to dart out of his way, nor could she stop his hand as he grabbed for the knife. She attempted to fight back, but she was simply too small, the brute too strong.

  He wrenched the knife from her, yanked her in front of him, and placed the blade to her throat. “Move, and I’ll kill her.”

  Merritt went instantly still.

  The man began to back slowly toward the steps, taking Veronica with him as a shield. Merritt flashed between hot rage and icy fear, but if he made any move toward them, the man would slit her throat.

  “I’m leaving,” the killer called out. “Stay where you are until I’m down on the street and out of the building.”

  Like hell I will. “No.” The word tore from him in an animal growl. The warning in his voice was murderous. “You don’t get to take away the woman I love.”

  He met her gaze through the shadows, and the same determination that was on his face was mirrored on hers. There was no fear visible in her, just complete trust in him. He would never fail her.

  He let the man back across the roof toward the doorway and the dark stairs beyond, and his heart thumped painfully in his chest at every step the man forced Veronica to take with him. But she was smart—oh, she was brilliant! And she didn’t fight him, didn’t let out a single sob or plea. She knew to go along and wait for the right moment to attack.

  But waiting was the last thing Merritt would do.

  They moved closer to the dark stairs. When the man reached the doorway, he eased his hold on her and glanced down over his shoulder to find the first step—

  “Now!” Merritt shouted and hurled himself toward them.

  She simultaneously jabbed an elbow into the man’s gut and shoved his arm away, deflecting the blade as he sliced it toward her throat. Her hand dove into her sleeve and slid free her own knife. She stabbed, and the blade sank deep into the bastard’s shoulder. A howl tore from him, and instinctively, he stepped back and put himself off-balance.

  Merritt plowed into him with his shoulder and shoved him backward. The man cartwheeled head over heels down the stairs. Each bounce of his body came with a sickening thud, and he landed in a crumpled ball on the floor below. But he wasn’t dead. An agonizing groan came from him as he found the strength to crawl across the boards as he still attempted to escape.

  That bastard wasn’t getting away this time. Merritt snatched up the dropped knife and froze—blood stained the blade. He stared at it, knowing…

  Veronica.

  He spun around and saw her slumped in pain against the doorframe. Her face paled to ghostly white as her trembling hand reached toward her shoulder. When she pulled it away, bright blood covered her fingers.

  His worst fears seized him in a block of ice. He couldn’t tear his attention away from the wet spot darkening her leather waistcoat.

  “Go after him,” she urged in a breathless rasp. “Stop him, arrest him…�
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  He started down the stairs, then halted. The man had pulled himself to his feet and was attempting to hobble the rest of the way to the ground. His left leg was badly twisted, as was his left wrist, and blood trickled from the cut on his brow. But he was still alive and capable of escaping.

  The bastard deserved to die. He deserved to be arrested, tried, and strung up by his neck, dangling and kicking until all the life drained from his body. Until Joanna finally had justice and could rest in peace.

  But Veronica needed him. As the darkness inside him warred with the light, he knew he couldn’t have both. He couldn’t save Veronica and still have vengeance on this man. He had to choose—the future or the past.

  Throwing the knife away, he turned back to Veronica and caught her just as her trembling legs gave out. He gently lowered her onto the roof and into his arms.

  Bonelessly, Veronica sank against him as fatigue and loss of blood overcame her. Pain pounded in her shoulder in such rapid hammer blows that she could only breathe by sucking in sharp gasps through clenched teeth.

  “Go,” she ordered, unable to summon more than a hoarse whisper. “Go after him—you have to…”

  “What I have to do is care for you,” he countered as he laid her on her back and tore open her waistcoat. He swiftly untied the stays and pushed them open to reveal the blood-soaked linen shirt beneath.

  “It’s not serious,” she insisted.

  In silent argument, he stuck his finger through the knife hole in her shirt and wiggled it at her somberly. Then he grabbed the shirt in both hands and ripped it open to bare her chest.

  She gasped. “Not that I mind you…ripping off my clothes.” She attempted to pant down the pain. “But this isn’t the time nor place.”

  Her joke fell flat when he flicked a glance at her and she glimpsed the absolute worry etched onto his face.

  She squeezed his arm to reassure him. “I’ve had worse.” Although she would have been hard pressed at that moment to say when. “I’ll be fine.”