Forbidden (58 page)

Ash stepped back, his heart sinking down to
his feet. She hadn't been looking for him at all, but his older
brother, his twin, the duke. It was such a sad joke, a sad
existence really. Would he ever be first in anything?

Months had progressed into a year as he'd
watched his brother and Lucy fall into such a deep love all he had
been able to do was be happy for them and try to spend as much time
away as possible. After all, it was not done to want your brother's
wife, to want to care for her and protect her. It was fate's final,
cruel trick to allow Ash to feel something for another and then
have that person ripped away by his brother. Though he loved his
brother more than his own life, it seemed Ash was always left with
nothing while his brother was given everything.

His name fit.

For he was the ash after the fire of Hunter
burned out.

He was nothing but soot, darkness, and sand.
One day, his ashes would trickle away into the wind, never to be
remembered and never mourned, but forgotten.

"Ash! Do you hear me! I love you! I love
you!" Hunter yelled at his brother as he shook his shoulders, and
then his eyes widened with desperation as slapped him across the
face.

Ash stared at the blood staining his hands.
He tried to wipe it off. Tried but failed as it continued to drip
down his wrists into his jacket. "I'm so sorry," he kept repeating
over and over again, but it did not matter.

The carriage had come too fast. Lucy had
thought Ash was Hunter and had run to him right into the
street.

The fault was his.

He knew it, Hunter knew it, and Lucy,
beautiful Lucy, his brother's innocent wife was dead, and it was
all because he had lied about who he was, tried to be better than
just the second son.

He backed away, slowly at first, and then he
ran.

His feet ached, his stomach heaved, and
finally he stopped in the middle of the street, hoping, praying
that someone or something would hit him. Death, it seemed, was his
only option; it was his wish, his choice. For how could he live
with himself after what he had done?

Hunter had loved Lucy, but so had Ash. She
was his everything, his only relative other than Hunter, and
although he had wanted her for himself, he had pushed those
emotions so far beneath the surface of his heart that he hadn't
understood how far the love had run until now, until it was too
late.

On legs like lead, he walked until he reached
the tombstone of his parents. Both taken from him too soon. What
would they think of him now? He was the disappointment in the
family, the second son by minutes. And now he was a murderer.

Disgusted with himself, he sat down on the
cold grass, leaned his head against the stone, and cursed. His
brother — his only living relative — and he had ruined his life and
ruined his parents' memory in the process. All he had ever wanted
as a boy was to please his father, yet all he'd received was
disapproval. One time — just one time — he wanted to make someone
proud, make himself proud.

But it was impossible.

He looked down at bloodstained hands.

His future stared right back at him.

Flee! He needed to flee, to get away. No, not
just get away. He needed to die. A life for a life. So he set about
doing exactly that. It was not fair that he was able to live, to
survive, when the one woman who had done nothing but brought
happiness to everyone she'd met, lay dead in the street.

"Lucy," he whispered as salty tears ran down
his cheeks and across his lips. "I'm so sorry… but I will see you
soon. I will see you soon." He reached into his pocket and pulled
out the pistol. With shaking hands he lifted it to his chin and
pulled the trigger.

I have lost the war that wages between my
mind and my soul. I have allowed myself to become swallowed up
within the darkness and despair of the world I exist in. What cruel
God would allow me to live when my greatest desire, was to follow
her into the next world? —The Grimm Reaper

Ash traced the scar
beneath his chin. Usually his cravat did the job of covering the
monstrosity, but today, today of all days, he needed another
reminder of who he was, of what he was.

Thick and grotesque, the scar went from just
above his throat across his neck and ended at the bottom of his
ear. The carriage jolted, causing his hand to slip. He slowly
lowered his chin and looked down at that hand, the same hand, the
same fingers responsible for pulling the trigger.

Ash closed his eyes and squeezed his hand
tight until he felt the leather numb his fingers. Another reminder.
They were everywhere. Since that day, he hadn't been able to hold a
pistol in his right hand; too many memories caused him to pause
before he shot. In his certain business, pausing meant death. And
though at one time he had wished for it, he had found a greater
purpose: killing those who deserved it more than he and watching
the life drain from their bodies as he said a prayer for their
damned souls.

Exhaling, he slapped his glove, once, twice
against his thigh and then put it back on his right hand. He
squeezed into the smooth leather, relishing the way the tightness
fit around his fingers. Every day he drew a breath was another day
he was alive; every time he had a sensation of warmth or
contentment, it was soon followed with guilt. Guilt that Lucy would
never again experience any of those things, guilt that
he
was.

"Are you certain you are up to it this time,
Ash?"

Ash's head snapped to attention. He gritted
his teeth as his nostrils flared in irritation. "Up to it? When
have I ever given you reason to doubt my abilities?"

"Never." Pierce pulled out two of his pistols
and laid them across the seat next to him. "But you've also never
had to do a retrieval. I fear you'll shoot every bloke within the
woman's vicinity before even asking the first and most important
question."

"And what's that?"

"Pardon?" Pierce flicked the blade of his
dagger.

"The most important question."

"Oh, of course. That would be… if we are, in
fact, in the right cottage. Wouldn't do to rescue the wrong damsel
and all that. Too messy. We'd have to kill her to silence her, and
I do hate having such beautiful blood on my hands."

"Sentimental poet." Ash smirked. "Fine. I
promise not to shoot anyone or anything until we ask the
question."

"And after?"

Ash sighed. "I must be allowed to shoot
something
." If he didn't, the constraint might drive him
mad. He'd been sitting in the same blasted carriage for days now.
Who knew it took so long to escape to Scotland?

"Shoot a tree."

"A tree? Be quick about reminding me why I
brought you on this mission again."

Pierce shrugged. "Because you need someone
who has the social skills of a gentleman."

"And what do I have?"

"That of an ass," Pierce said happily and
then added, "The donkey, not an actual ass, you get my meaning." He
chuckled happily. "Now, is there anything else I need to know about
this damsel? She's Russian? Escaping her horrid family in hopes to
marry into the peerage? What else?"

Giving a shake of his head, Ash spread his
hands. "I was told nothing more than to retrieve her and the guard
and bring them into London."

"Guard?"

"Yes, guard. As in, she has a Royal Guard who
remains loyal. My guess is they will be extremely difficult."

"Lovely." Pierce placed his dagger on the
seat next to his pistols. "All accounted for. Now, let us be quick
about this. I have a saucy wench waiting for me at The Beast's
Scottish estate."

"I doubt the Royal Prince of Maksylov would
approve of your behavior under his roof."

"The Beast is currently rotting in London."
Pierce picked at a piece of lint on his trousers and shrugged.
"Besides, I like to have my appetite sated before I travel for days
on end with a beautiful woman."

Ash snapped to attention, bringing his head
up almost painfully to regard the other man. "How do you know she's
beautiful?"

Pierce shrugged and then grinned wickedly.
"Damsels, my friend, are always beautiful."

Ash hoped not. The last thing he needed was a
self-absorbed princess. He was no nursemaid, and he would rather
gouge his own eyes out than cater to a simpering female.

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