The Duke with the Dragon Tattoo by Byrne Kerrigan

Author:Byrne, Kerrigan
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: St. Martin's Press
Published: 2018-08-27T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

In his tenure as the Rook, he’d only been outmaneuvered … well … never. He’d plotted a successful invasion at best, and a slightly protracted siege at worst.

In no scenario he could devise would Dorian Blackwell, the Blackheart of Ben More, be meeting an ambush with an invitation to open battle.

Yet there the bastard stood, yards away with twelve men to the Rook’s ten, matching him pistol for pistol. Brute for murderous, bloodthirsty brute.

Almost.

Moncrieff had offered to take Barnaby and another rifleman to the other side of the isle to approach from behind, in case such an occasion should occur. They would offer long-range cover from the hills.

So, where were they?

From beneath his cowl, the Rook scanned the jagged peaks beyond which Ben More Keep settled in the distance, lording over a crystal cove. They were the castle’s only weakness, these treacherous, mossy mountains. Even from the keep’s tower, it was impossible for a lookout to see over the black stone knolls to the swath of beach where they’d moored the longboats. Just above the ridge closest to Ben More Peak, the charred stone skeleton of burned Jacobite ruin told of a century-old British invasion.

The Rook had brought his most fleet-footed men, and they should have been able to navigate the perilous mountain terrain and reach the ruins of the castle before needing to concern themselves with discovery.

When the Blackheart of Ben More and his men had melted from the shadows of the ruins upon the Rook’s approach, his astonishment turned into anticipation.

Better a battle, mayhap, than an invasion. Castles had fortifications, hiding places, armories, and corners in which to be trapped. Out beneath the sky, beneath the sunset to the west and the threatening clouds above, he could take full measure of the men before him.

And calculate exactly how long it would take them to die.

With luck, Moncrieff and his riflemen were in position to provide cover. But when had luck ever been on his side? Never. Fate was an enemy with which he waged a constant war. He’d carved his own destiny out of the flesh of his enemies.

His men were trained more for naval combat, but they’d overwhelmed many an opponent on land. Today would be no different.

The Rook kept his pistol leveled on the raven-haired, black-eyed bastard standing in the exact same position as him. Several yards away, out in front of his men, who took a similar formation as the Rook’s own crew.

He could have been looking in a mirror, but for the eye patch over his adversary’s left eye.

The handicap would make Dorian Blackwell a weaker shot.

That shouldn’t matter. It didn’t usually. But … what if Blackwell’s bullet found its mark this time? Death possessed a particular repugnance today, as the thought of leaving Lorelai unprotected on his ship produced a foreign thump against his ribs.

“Which one of you goes by the name of Frank Walters?” he called across the divide. His crew needed to know which man not to kill. Not until he gleaned the information he came for.

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