He closed his eyes. Another woman’s image replaced Penelope. A woman with dark hair and a voice that cut like a metal scourge.
Tu n’es rien.You are nothing.
Her whisper sliced through his ears. His blood went cold. His breath lodged in his throat. Then, oblivion claimed him once again.
~~~
The ship had resumed rocking.
That,however,hadn’t felt like the list of a ship. And even a gale couldn’t cause a rumble like—bam.
The back of Cheverley’s head smacked against a hard surface.
St. George’s dragon.
He winced.
Only,hadSt. George killed a dragon? Or, had it been St. Michael?
No.NotSt.Michael. His heart surged as another memory slipped into place. The other Michael, the archangel...hekilled the dragon. But maybe St. George had also—bam.
His nonsensical thoughts arrested.
“Christ!” he cursed.
He ached all over. And someone had left an anchor on his chest. Though, the weighted spot was rather small to be an anchor. Instinctively, he swatted. Air, of course.
Wrong arm.
“Keep still, would you?” The voice came from far away, not in proximity but in time.
With concentrated effort, Cheverley lifted leaden lids. He was in some sort of a carriage. A long one. Curtained. Black. No benches.
Bam—hell and damnation. Was he in a hearse? Amovinghearse?
He struggled to rise. The anchorstilldid not move. He squinted, parsing the shadows. The anchor was a hand, and the hand was unquestionably attached to a man crouching at his side.
The man was large. Herculean, almost, though his glinting buttons suggested he was far from common.
“What the devil?”
The man’s teeth flashed as he smiled. “Not the devil, though some suggest I am related to him.” He lifted one brow. “And, when you rise from the dead, you’re bound to increase their certainty.”
Pardon?“Not dead.”
“Yes.” He sighed. “I am afraid you are. As far as the law and your family are concerned, anyway.”
The man’s words sent warning through Cheverley’s blood, though his voice—not just the tone, but his way of speaking—felt very familiar.
“You needn’t worry.” The anchor tapped against his chest. “We’ll do something about the ‘your being dead’ part...after we take care of your problems with the Admiralty.”
The man clucked his tongue.
“You are in a good deal of trouble, you know—not that I should be surprised.” He held up a finger. “At sixteen, you stole a carriage and eloped with the daughter of a pig farmer,” a second finger joined the first, “at twenty-three, just before disappearing without a trace, you demanded I meet you in enemy waters so you could amend your will, and, now,” he held up a third, “on the cusp of your third decade, you wash up in rags with little more to say to your rescuers than my name. Which means,” The man’s face loomed, “you’ve placed mein a good deal of trouble, too.” A crease marked his patrician chin. “I detest trouble.”
No, you don’t.Chev’s answer formed without thought.You revel in trouble.
Chev blinked.
