Page 44 of Tempting Fate
“Thank God he was there,” Mrs. Pickering exclaimed. “Thank God. If something happened to you, Miss Felicity, our hearts would be fair broken.”
“Thank you.” Now that the storm had passed. That she was safe in her home, her bones began to quake, and her teeth chattered as the imprint from his body faded.
They’d been after her. Somehow, she knew it. Once again this seemed more like a targeted attack than simple random violence.
So who had known she’d be at the ball? Who had the motive to do something so terribly violent as to send three men with sharp knives and clear intent?
“Let’s get you some brandy and put you in a nightgown.” Mrs. Pickering helped her up the stairs toward her bedroom.
Felicity peeked at the dark doorframe of the washroom behind which she could hear water running from the pumps.
Gareth.“Someone needs to tend to him.”
“A hero, he is,” Mrs. Pickering agreed. “I was dubious about him at first, but I’m glad you followed your intuition and hired the man. He’ll find the brigand behind this.”
Suddenly, Felicity felt sorry for the brigand.
Lord, he’d been such a gentle giant until now, she sometimes let herself forget what she’d hired him to do. He was a man who, by his own admission, claimed violence as his only skill.
He’d conducted that violence efficiently tonight without constraint or hesitation. Seemingly without thought.
Without remorse.
In fact, she recalled the look of savage triumph as he’d crushed the third villain’s skull before the knife aimed at her breast could let fly.
What sort of life must he have lived to amass such expertise? To kill with such ease?
To kiss with such soul-melting tenderness.
A paradox was Gareth Severand.
One sheshouldhave feared after such a display.
But she didn’t.
Now what she feared was being without him.
Chapter 8
Gareth swiped a towel over his bloodied face before throwing it into the laundry heap. He paced the expansive washroom floor for several minutes, maybe longer.
He knew the room was tiled in handsome blues and greens, with white marble floors beneath the ornate copper tub.
But he could see none of that through the mien of red.
The bloodlust refused to retract. His muscles remained engorged with violence, with the pure, carnal familiarity he had with it.
He’d killed.
He’d enjoyed it. He wanted to bring those men to life and do it again. Oh, but he’d take his time with them if he had his druthers. He’d baptize them in pain and blood before he sent them to face their eternal reckoning.
His only solace was knowing that he’d meet them in hell, and then he’d teach the devil a thing or two about punishment.
They knew better than to challenge him. At least, two of them had. Because they’d known him in a previous life.
They’d once called him their master.
Clayton Honeycutt and Richard Smythe. Both of them skilled killers. Both of them Fauves before the organization had fallen apart upon his and Raphael’s “death.”
