Undressed with the Marquess (Lost Lords of London #3) - Christi Caldwell Page 0,1

from the customary shorter one, was anything but deliberate.

No, everyone from the constables on down to the magistrate was making a pointed example of him.

Dare made a slow climb up the last ten stairs he’d ever ascend.

And then he reached the top of the dais.

Drawing in a slow, steadying breath, he stared out at the sea of strangers below. Men, women, and children who’d have no one fighting for their justice and their survival. People there to be exploited.

So much work left undone.

And he proved very much the bastard Temperance had called him out as . . . because he found himself thinking of just one: her.

I wanted forever with you, Dare . . . but I’m not your first love. Your first love will always be your thieving ways . . . and I cannot—will not—be around when you finally fall . . .

His throat jumped.

She’d been right.

She’d always been right about so much. Always honorable, Temperance had certainly been too good for the likes of him.

But I wanted her anyway . . .

He closed his eyes, letting the crowd melt from his mind, wanting her face to be the last he saw. Not as she’d been the last time he’d seen her, but before that. Back when there was her laughter and his, melded together, as harmonious in their joy as they had been in making love—

The guard jabbed him hard in the back, bringing the reverie to an end and Dare’s eyes flying open.

A third guard stepped forward with a burlap sack in hand. In one fluid movement, the man shoved it over Dare’s head.

Dare sucked in a breath as he was swallowed by darkness. No.

A rope dropped about his neck.

Terror plucked at the very edge of his consciousness, and he clenched and unclenched his bound hands, wanting to rip at that weighted cord about him.

And then came the strangest of occurrences.

Silence.

An eerie wave of it rolled through the crowd, punctuated by the periodic wail of a small child.

And he found himself longing for the noise. The one that would keep the world from hearing the hammering of his heart or the ragged, frantic breaths he sucked in through lungs that were too tight.

I’m not ready . . .

“In the name of the king . . .”

The king . . . That monarch who’d never cared about his people. Not the ones who’d most needed his care. Rage swept through Dare, and he welcomed the white-hot rush of it. He opened his mouth and shouted into the quiet, “Fuck the king!”

Cheers erupted, a wild, raucous bellowing of approval so thunderous it dimmed the frantic discussion taking place amongst his guards.

“In the name of the king”—that voice at his back shouted once more—“you are hereby ordered to cease . . .”

I don’t want to die . . . I don’t want to die . . . I don’t want to die . . .

It was a litany that rolled around in Dare’s head. He was grabbed by the arms and lurched forward, all his muscles coiling tight at that violation, and it was all he could do to keep from trying to fight off those men propelling him onward to his death.

Nay, he’d not die a coward.

Then the enormous weight of the noose was lifted.

Through the haze of panic and the adrenaline that pumped in his veins came confusion.

He was dead.

There was nothing else for it.

“Save ’im . . . save ’im . . . save ’im . . .”

And yet if he were dead, why did the crowds cheer still?

Those cries and shouts pealed through the square.

Where was the silence death brought?

He staggered backward, nearly tripping over his feet at the pace set by his captors. His saviors? It was all confused in this moment.

They continued dragging him down the steps . . . and back still, leading him off. The din of those who’d assembled at the Old Bailey grew muffled and muted, indicating he’d been drawn away from the gallows.

A long while later, those leading Dare abruptly stopped, dragging him to a halt alongside them.

KnockKnockKnock.

The rusty creak of hinges squealed. Dare was shoved into a room.

“Remove that . . . bag . . . this instant.” An austere voice in the same clipped English as the king himself cut through the loud silence.

Hands were immediately on Dare, struggling with the knot about his neck.

The sack was pulled from him. A blinding blast of light streamed through the glass windowpanes, and he squinted, bringing his hands