And Collard couldn’t remember her name, if he’d even bothered to learn it.
Collard had ruined Violet in all ways, and Daniel wasn’t about to let him get away with that. And who knew how many other young women he’d destroyed before or since? Or would destroy in the days to come?
“I’m not going to tell you about her,” Daniel said. “Who she is and what she’s like. Because you don’t deserve to know. I’m not going to share one single second of her with you. I’ll just say that though you did your best to destroy her, she wouldn’t stay destroyed. Because she’s far stronger than you, far better than you can ever hope to be. And the fact that you don’t even know what a monster you are means I’m ending this conversation right now.”
Daniel let up on his walking stick but drew it back and swung it at Collard’s head. Collard raised his hands, snatching the stick as it came down, jerked it from Daniel’s grip, and tossed it aside.
Daniel didn’t mind. Before Collard could recover, Daniel was on him, his fists coming down on Collard’s face again and again. The man fought back, and Daniel struggled with him, his still-healing torso aching.
Daniel’s ancestors had been warriors. Old Malcolm Mackenzie had survived Culloden by cutting his way out of a pack of Englishmen who’d just slaughtered his four brothers and his father. Then he’d turned around, killed his family’s killers, and gone on a rampage of revenge.
Only a few generations stood between Daniel and Old Malcolm, who hadn’t been old at the time. Malcolm had been twenty-five when he’d cut his way to freedom, the same age Daniel was now. Tonight Malcolm lived again in Daniel, and Daniel’s bloodlust responded. Revenge was something Scotsmen knew all about.
Daniel had little memory of what he did in that room. He only saw the bearded man’s face, which quickly grew red with blood, and Collard’s eyes, which lost their anger and filled with fear and desperation. Daniel heard Collard begging for mercy. But Violet had asked for mercy too, and Collard hadn’t given it to her.
People did come; the fight wasn’t silent. Hands tried to pull Daniel back—French police, he saw dimly—but Daniel’s madness had taken over.
Ian felt this way, a part of Daniel realized. This same black rage had risen within the younger Ian when he couldn’t make himself understood—when Ian hadn’t understood himself what he was feeling. The rage had come out in violence, the only thing that could assuage it.
Even stronger hands pulled at Daniel now. Daniel thought he recognized Hart Mackenzie, but when his vision cleared a little, he realized the man was Lloyd Fellows, Hart’s half-brother and a Scotland Yard detective.
Daniel shook off Fellows and kept fighting. Collard had curled into a ball, whimpering and bloody. Daniel was bloody himself, his beautiful new jacket a mess, and he didn’t give a f**k.
“Daniel.” Fellows shook him. “You’ve got to stop.”
Daniel swung to him, feeling blood on his face, madness in his heart. “Why? He didn’t stop for Violet.”
Fellows’s hands clamped down on Daniel’s shoulders, and he spoke loudly and carefully. “You have to leave, Daniel. If you stay, I might have to arrest you for murder. Go. I have this.”
Daniel looked up at the uncle who’d lived the first part of his life enraged at the Mackenzies for robbing him of what he thought was his. The anger was gone from Fellows now, replaced by contentment, especially now that he’d married. But he too possessed the steely rage of the Mackenzies. The blood of Old Malcolm ran in his veins as well.
“I need to do this,” Daniel said, out of breath.
“You have done it. He’ll not last much longer. But you have to let me finish it.”
“Why?” This was personal.
“Because I’m a policeman,” Fellows said, his feral smile worthy of any Mackenzie. “I have friends in the Sûreté. This man is running an illegal gambling house, and I’ll wager he’ll resist his arrest.”
Daniel still didn’t want to go. His blood was hot, and his temper wasn’t mitigated.
But the logical part of Daniel knew Fellows was right. If Daniel killed the man, as low a life as he was, Daniel would be arrested and tried for murder. Fellows, on the other hand, a detective chief inspector of Scotland Yard, with many friends and connections in the Sûreté, would be lauded for bringing down a criminal.
Daniel nodded, still struggling to breathe. He ached all over, though his berserker madness barely let him acknowledge it.
“Don’t let him get away,” Daniel said.
“No,” Fellows answered. “You can trust me.”
Daniel nodded again. Even more than his uncles, even more than his father, Fellows understood. He’d battled the dark for a long time.
Daniel looked down at Collard. The man’s face and head were bleeding freely, his hands swollen and broken. He looked up at Daniel in dire fear, which made Daniel feel slightly better.
Collard then threw Fellows a look of hope and calculation, which made Daniel laugh. The man had no idea what Fellows was capable of.
Laughing hurt, though, so Daniel only gave his uncle a salute and made his way out of the room. One of the policemen guided him to a back door that led out into the night.
Simon, waiting in the little lane behind the building, got Daniel into a coach. Daniel was a mess, and he was pretty sure he’d opened up the gunshot wound again, but he didn’t care.
He didn’t want to go to Violet like this, so he went to his father instead. Violet wasn’t at the hotel in any case, it turned out—she’d gone out with Ainsley and Daniel’s aunts for shopping and supper.
Cameron came down and helped Simon and the doorman get Daniel up the back stairs to Cameron’s suite.
Daniel, spent, collapsed onto a sofa. “I did it,” he said as Cameron shoved a full glass of whiskey into his hands. “I avenged her.”
“l know you did, Son,” Cameron said, and the pride in Cameron’s eyes was all Daniel needed.
The wedding of Daniel Mackenzie and Violet Devereaux took place in May at Kilmorgan Castle. No longer a castle, Kilmorgan was a giant of a Georgian-style house, stretching itself across a green expanse before a backdrop of distant mountains.
The wedding was conducted in the ballroom. The entire house streamed with white ribbons, lily of the valley, pink and white roses, and blue forget-me-nots. Violet’s gown had a close-fitting creamy silk bodice beaded with mother-of-pearl and a smattering of real diamonds, and sleeves of fine lace. A silk skirt, decorated with more lace, flowed gracefully from her waist. She wore a veil, sheer gauze suspended from a crown of roses and forget-me-nots. The entire ensemble was stunning—Violet gazed at herself in the mirror after the Mackenzie ladies and daughters dressed her and scarcely recognized herself.