The fault was his.
He knew it, Hunter knew it, and Lucy, beautiful Lucy, his brother's innocent wife was dead, and it was all because he had lied about who he was, tried to be better than just the second son.
He backed away, slowly at first, and then he ran.
His feet ached, his stomach heaved, and finally he stopped in the middle of the street, hoping, praying that someone or something would hit him. Death, it seemed, was his only option; it was his wish, his choice. For how could he live with himself after what he had done?
Hunter had loved Lucy, but so had Ash. She was his everything, his only relative other than Hunter, and although he had wanted her for himself, he had pushed those emotions so far beneath the surface of his heart that he hadn't understood how far the love had run until now, until it was too late.
On legs like lead, he walked until he reached the tombstone of his parents. Both taken from him too soon. What would they think of him now? He was the disappointment in the family, the second son by minutes. And now he was a murderer.
Disgusted with himself, he sat down on the cold grass, leaned his head against the stone, and cursed. His brother — his only living relative — and he had ruined his life and ruined his parents' memory in the process. All he had ever wanted as a boy was to please his father, yet all he'd received was disapproval. One time — just one time — he wanted to make someone proud, make himself proud.
But it was impossible.
He looked down at bloodstained hands.
His future stared right back at him.
Flee! He needed to flee, to get away. No, not just get away. He needed to die. A life for a life. So he set about doing exactly that. It was not fair that he was able to live, to survive, when the one woman who had done nothing but brought happiness to everyone she'd met, lay dead in the street.
"Lucy," he whispered as salty tears ran down his cheeks and across his lips. "I'm so sorry… but I will see you soon. I will see you soon." He reached into his pocket and pulled out the pistol. With shaking hands he lifted it to his chin and pulled the trigger.
CHAPTER ONE
I have lost the war that wages between my mind and my soul. I have allowed myself to become swallowed up within the darkness and despair of the world I exist in. What cruel God would allow me to live when my greatest desire, was to follow her into the next world? —The Grimm Reaper
Ash traced the scar beneath his chin. Usually his cravat did the job of covering the monstrosity, but today, today of all days, he needed another reminder of who he was, of what he was.
Thick and grotesque, the scar went from just above his throat across his neck and ended at the bottom of his ear. The carriage jolted, causing his hand to slip. He slowly lowered his chin and looked down at that hand, the same hand, the same fingers responsible for pulling the trigger.
Ash closed his eyes and squeezed his hand tight until he felt the leather numb his fingers. Another reminder. They were everywhere. Since that day, he hadn't been able to hold a pistol in his right hand; too many memories caused him to pause before he shot. In his certain business, pausing meant death. And though at one time he had wished for it, he had found a greater purpose: killing those who deserved it more than he and watching the life drain from their bodies as he said a prayer for their damned souls.
Exhaling, he slapped his glove, once, twice against his thigh and then put it back on his right hand. He squeezed into the smooth leather, relishing the way the tightness fit around his fingers. Every day he drew a breath was another day he was alive; every time he had a sensation of warmth or contentment, it was soon followed with guilt. Guilt that Lucy would never again experience any of those things, guilt that he was.
"Are you certain you are up to it this time, Ash?"
Ash's head snapped to attention. He gritted his teeth as his nostrils flared in irritation. "Up to it? When have I ever given you reason to doubt my abilities?"
"Never." Pierce pulled out two of his pistols and laid them across the seat next to him. "But you've also never had to do a retrieval. I fear you'll shoot every bloke within the woman's vicinity before even asking the first and most important question."
"And what's that?"
"Pardon?" Pierce flicked the blade of his dagger.
"The most important question."
"Oh, of course. That would be… if we are, in fact, in the right cottage. Wouldn't do to rescue the wrong damsel and all that. Too messy. We'd have to kill her to silence her, and I do hate having such beautiful blood on my hands."
"Sentimental poet." Ash smirked. "Fine. I promise not to shoot anyone or anything until we ask the question."
"And after?"
Ash sighed. "I must be allowed to shoot something." If he didn't, the constraint might drive him mad. He'd been sitting in the same blasted carriage for days now. Who knew it took so long to escape to Scotland?