Liam completed what should have been a ten-day journey in record time, paying dearly for his haste. No longer a young buck, the endless hours in the saddle caused his back to scream, his hips to ache, and his bloody arse to turn as tender as a babe’s. Forty loomed a few years off and every joint and muscle in his body was intent on reminding him of this egregious fact.
What I need is a cold pint of ale and one of Cook’s hot meat pies.
He could have woken the household upon his arrival and had his meal delivered to him in his bedroom, but he detested the idea of disturbing his servants from their well-deserved sleep at such a late – or closer to the point, very early – hour just to cater to his whims. It was a shocking opinion to be held by a marquess, and yet one gaining traction in his thoughts since his return from the war. In battle, an enemy made no distinction between blue blood and that of a commoner; it all ran red when pulsing from a wound. His fellow members of the peerage seemed to forget that measure of equality the moment soldiers returned from foreign shores.
While noble lords had their copious lands and houses replete with servants, food, fire, and comfort in which to convalesce, their untitled brethren often returned to no work, no income, and no further military career. Liam had seen first-hand the luxuries awaiting these wrecks. Opium dens. Cheap gin. Begging on filthy streets. Labour camps. Prison. He despised the unfairness of it. Anger licked at the edges of his soul once more, threatening to flare into a destructive inferno. But he pushed it down to grow hotter, harder, until the rage forged a blade of vengeance he could wield against his enemies.
I suppose father taught me something useful after all.
Liam’s fury was a familiar and fearsome thing. It had been with him since he was a young lad. A companion born from the gentle tutelage of his father. Lord Richard Renquist, the fourth Marquess of Stoneway, believed the best way for his sons to overcome weakness was through experiencing extreme pain. A lesson he taught them repeatedly in their formative years.
When William joined the military and went to war, his father’s lessons were reaffirmed. In battle, it was almost a relief to give himself over to the black rage. He honed his pain into a weapon as fearsome as his rifle, as sharp as his sword. As a machine of combat, Liam didn’t have to thinkabout consequences beyond immediate victory. It enabled him to endure torture and starvation and enact the same inhumane behaviour on his enemies. Men he neither knew, nor had any quarrel with outside of the fact his orders demanded their submission.
The glories of war where all manner of sin is deemed acceptable.
But rules of warfare didn’t apply in a civilized society. While his father and the war created a savage beast within Liam, his return to England demanded he reshape himself again. At least on the outside. And so, he donned the trappings of a noble lord and tried to remember his humanity. But the beast never died. It paced within him. Chafing on a short chain he held in a steel grip.
He still served the Queen, but his battlefield was now the ballrooms and billiard tables of the beau monde where sharp teeth and razor talons hid behind starched cravats and empty smiles.
Hypocrites. The lot of us.
And Liam was the worst. Cloaked in the costume of a marquess while evil lurked beneath his tailored suits and fine jackets. After all, he was his father’s son. Just as wicked. Just as damned. But he would not join his family in the fires of hell without dragging a few nasty bastards with him first. In this private war waged by the Queen and her select few, at least he knew his opponents were guilty and worthy of the punishment he would exact.
Cheerful thought for such a late evening.
He shook his head as he strode down the hallway toward the kitchen. He might be a wild creature hiding in the image of a perfectly pampered peer. He might be the fearsome monster lurking in darkness. He might be readying to tear apart the fabric of the beau monde one corrupt lord at a time.
But that doesn’t mean I need to wake my household at two in the morning to serve me a meal when I’m damn well capable of finding my own bloody dinner.
Liam was a wealthy marquess, a murderer whose sins were forgiven because of the uniform he wore while committing those crimes, a shell of humanity with far too much darkness inside, but he wasn’t a complete arsehole.
He entered the kitchen and found it was not empty.
‘My lord.’ A sturdy young woman pulled a flannel wrap close around her and attempted an awkward curtsy. An errant curl escaped her nightcap and brushed against a freckled cheek.
Cinnamon and cream.
The thought rose unbidden, and Liam’s mouth watered suddenly for a cream puff.
Absurd!
Monsters did not eat cream puffs. They ate the souls of the wicked, the cold metal of their enemy’s blade, the light of hope dying in their victim’s eyes. And meat pies. Steak and kidney meat pies particularly. Which should be the only thing consuming his thoughts. Not the colour of a young woman’s cheek. Or the way candlelight caught the curl escaping her cap. Or, God help him, the delicious curve of her lips.
His beast strained against the chains, but instead of growling, he purred.
Stand down.
He would never take advantage of a domestic working in his household, no matter how quickly the flames of lust ignited. This young woman was under his protection. His maid, for God’s sake. She was not some rare beauty. Her modestly clad figure was built for strength and economy, not seduction. Yet, his fingers twitched to test the softness of her skin.
He clenched his jaw against the sudden need, different from what raged in his belly, but no less demanding. How long had itbeen since he tasted a woman? Certainly not since his departure for the war. And why on earth was the sight of freckles on the pale cheek of a servant inspiring lascivious thoughts to swirl in his mind?
Evil inherited in the blood.
His father tupped any maid who caught his eye, with or without their permission. As a powerful marquess, he believed he had the right and taught his sons the same rule of law. As Liam grew older, he learned “civilized” society agreed with his father, even if something within him rebelled at such a breach of human respect. Rarely did magistrates listen to the complaints of domestics brave enough to speak out against their employers. Especially female domestics.
Then there was Reynard. When Liam learned the depths of his brother’s sins – sinking so low as to procure women for the Devil’s Sons in return for coin – it only further proved the soul-sickness infecting Liam’s family line. Evil inherited just as surely as the blond hair and amber eyes marking any Renquist man.
Theodore was another story entirely. A victim in ways Liam and Reynard never had to endure, but just as prone to seeking destructive methods to alleviate his pain.
