Chapter Four
The morning breeze tugged at Violet’s bonnet as she stepped through the gate and onto her rented plot just outside Brighton’s outskirts.
At the moment, the patch was less garden and more bare earth with half-dug rows and stakes marking where beds would eventually be.
Still, there were victories. The fence had already been erected, her friends had all helped with that, and her transplanted heather had taken beautifully.
Also, the few foxgloves she’d planted along the fence hadn’t sulked at their environment.
Good girls. Take root and thrive!
The rest . . . well, the rest remained potential.
Dreaming ground.
Fields of lilac heather. Purple flowing into the horizon like a painted marvel. Her soul flower? Heather, unquestionably. Foxgloves held a respectable second. Truly, she was partial to anything purple.
Even her name hinted at that particular fondness.
In fact, she’d considered Heather as her name for this new chapter of her life, but she’d settled on Violet instead, since violets had been her mother’s favorite flower.
And the one her father brought her mother on the day he first called on her, and every day after that.
Violet stepped around a patch of wildflowers she hadn’t yet had the heart to tear out. They were cheerful little things, utterly unruly, but their wildness had its charm. Besides, they filled the emptiness in a way freshly turned earth could not.
However, where on earth was Mr. Greeley?
Had she mistaken the meeting time?
Well, he’d done a good job so far with the time spent on the land, given that some parts had been a bit stubborn.
A faint crunch drifted from the gate behind her.
“Miss Sharpe.”
Violet’s whole body froze at the sound of her name being uttered in that deep voice. The dark notes slid down her spine, leaving gooseflesh in its shocking wake.
The Fury from last night? Here? Now?
She turned slowly, eyes falling on the impossibly tall man leaning on the inside of her gate.
His frame filled the entry fully, broad and unmoving, barring her only way out.
Up until this very moment, she’d refused to think about the catastrophe that was last night.
She was rather talented that way, blocking unpleasant things from her head.
Though the talent did have its drawbacks at times.
Like now, being caught unaware and unprepared.
“Mr. Fury,” she said slowly. “To what do I owe this unexpected surprise?”
His head tilted to the side, considering her with those eerily sharp eyes. “Is it really a surprise?”
What an impossible question. Her gaze traced the scar that started from the tip of his hairline, drawing over his eyebrow, jumping the eye socket, and continuing its path to stop at his jawline. It was the first time she’d seen the scar in full daylight, and mercy, it was quite the sight.
And another, glaring reminder.
This man came from a much more dangerous world than hers, and yet it also carried the same quiet, corrosive darkness that had once defined her life.
The thought unsteadied her. Who had caused such a scar on this man?
She could not imagine anyone with the gall.
She certainly did not wish to imagine the circumstances of such a brawl.
One thing, however, could not be denied: He lived in a world where pain was ordinary, where blood was as much a language as words.
The sort of world she wished to avoid at all costs.
A futile hope? Why else would she be standing here, half-terrified and half-entranced, her heart thudding because the man exuded such care-free confidence despite the danger that clung to him? Given his identity, was it any surprise he had shown himself here before her today?
Yes! Most certainly, yes!
This is why you shouldn’t just ignore certain worries, Violet. You could have prepared a better reaction. Who knew how she looked to the man at the moment. The man didn’t even push her to answer, simply stared at her, waiting.
Unnerving.
“Quite frankly, yes,” she murmured, finding it extraordinarily difficult to hold his gaze, which seemed to look straight through her soul.
He broke eye contact first, sweeping a glance over the garden. “Seems to be coming along.”
Violet clenched her hands. “Can I help you, sir?”
His gaze returned to her. The expression on his face didn’t change. Only his eyes grew colder, but it was enough to serve as a warning to this man’s nature. This Fury had a long fuse to his temper, but once lit, it might set off fireworks.
“As a matter of fact, you can.”
Lord. What could she ever help a man such as him with? Nothing about last night. Flowers, certainly. But he had not hunted her down to her plot of land for flowers. Besides those two things . . .
“I wish to show you a place.”
Violet jolted, blinking at the man. “I beg your pardon?”
He simply stared at her.
A pox on the man. “What place, and why would you wish to show it to me?”
Instead of answering, he tipped his head toward the waiting horse tethered just beyond the gate. “After you.”
“I think not.” Violet folded her arms. “Do you truly believe I’ll simply leave with you without you telling me where we are going? Does this cloak-and-dagger style work with other women?”
“Occasionally,” he said.
Violet blinked. “Occasionally?”
“When they are sensible.”
“Ah.” Cad. “Then I fear I shall disappoint you entirely,” she returned sweetly. “I make it a firm rule not to follow large, dangerous men through gates and into the unknown. It has all the makings of a cautionary tale.”
“You think me dangerous?”
“I think you very certain of yourself,” she said, lifting her chin. “And that is often far worse.”
“We’re going to a property of mine,” he answered. “And yes, it is.”
Violet scoffed. How vague. Infuriatingly vague. That told her absolutely nothing of his intentions. “And what will you do once we arrive on this property?” Her eyes narrowed on him. “You’re not planning to do away with me, are you?”
Amusement flashed in the depths of those dark pools. “Do away with you? Now why would I do that, Miss Sharpe?”
Probably not the wisest question to have asked him if she wished to draw his attention away from her. But still, he was the one intruding on her space. “I don’t know. You’re the ruffian here.”
“Ruffian?” His lips inched upward. “I’m simply your landlord.”
“You could have fooled me, Mr. Fury. Do all landlords behave like this? Appearing uninvited and demanding their tenants accompany them somewhere without explanation.”
“If I meant you harm, Miss Sharpe, you’d not be standing there debating the matter.”
“That is not remotely comforting.” Nothing about this handsome brute was.
He pushed off the gate, taking one deliberate step toward her. She stepped back instinctively, careful not to trample the wildflowers at her feet.
He folded his arms and regarded her steadily. “I promise no harm will befall you. Now, will you please come?”
“I don’t have much of a choice, do I?” Violet muttered, mind racing ways to neatly escape this situation. Short of running, and being caught anyway, she could find no clever way to avoid what appeared to be an inevitable outing.
“You always have a choice, Miss Sharpe.”
Oh? Truly? “And yet you insist that I go.”
The corner of his mouth twitched. “In this case, the choice is how you go, not if you’ll go.”
Blackguard! Ruffian! Coxcomb! “You expect me to climb on top of a horse with you?”
One dark brow lifted. “Will that be a problem?”
Yes! “Do you truly wish for me to answer that?”
“Of course.”
Blast the man. Why did he say things like that with a tone like that?
Why did he stand so utterly at ease? And why did he insist on looking as though he’d been carved from both trouble and temptation?
She ought to be infuriated. Honestly. This was practically kidnapping!
But a part of her was slightly curious as to this property he wished to show her. Was she overreacting?
Perhaps it was a new rental?
Dream on, Violet! Why would he care about you and rentals?
Well, there was only one way to find out, she supposed. Mount the brute’s beast with the brute himself.
*
Right belonged to any man strong enough to claim it for himself. Drake had never had any qualms with this. He believed this truth utterly and bone-deep. Power prevailed. Strength was the only law worth heeding. A law he’d learned young, kneeling beside the cooling corpse of his mother.
Strength had carved him. Ruthlessness had kept him alive.
Dominance was the only damn reason he still stood.
His mother, on the other hand, had been weak, so she hadn’t survived this world.
And she’d been born on the privileged side of the coin.
Daughter of a marquess. Had she not met the man who had sired him, she might have led a different life.
One most women could only dream of. But she didn’t, so the point was moot.
Privilege hadn’t saved her.
Fine blood meant nothing when it spilled the same as anyone else’s. And privilege only stood so long as stronger men allowed it. Better to cultivate strength and learn how to rip it from others.
He took no pride from watching Miss Sharpe struggle with all her choice.
She wanted to curse him to Hades, he could tell, yet her lips refrained while her eyes blazed with all she wished to say.
Her eyes, he decided, were the truest part of her.
Every thought crossed them before her composure could intervene.
Which was why his worries hadn’t been laid to rest. She compensated with words when she could, using wit to redirect the eye, but the eyes themselves never lied.
And while he would consider himself an excellent judge of character, he found himself at a loss with this one.
There seemed to be an indescribable force drawing his attention to her.
Was this how Maxen had felt about his new wife at the start?
Drake almost shuddered.
And yet here he was.
Seeking her out.