"Stop!" she ordered. "If danger is coming, Mason--"
"Can't help or protect you. You are the target. Mason can only be a liability. If you want him safe, leave him here."
It sounded like a convenient excuse, and she would have thought so if not for the absence of any cloying, burning scent.
"This is mad!"
"And the tabloids will eat the scandal up, which I fear may expose you to ..."
Hurstgrove paused, sighed regretfully. "Too late now. I know what this monster is capable of and I promise, I won't let him touch you."
She absorbed his protective vow. Why would the self-absorbed playboy care?
"W-when can I return home? To Mason."
He grimaced as he pushed his way into a small parlor, crossed the room in a handful of steps, then muscled his way through French doors and outside.
Freezing air pelted her, slipping under her dress insidiously. Fresh snow dusted the ground. Wind whipped through her curls, tearing at her upswept do, penetrating her lace sleeves with chill. Hurstgrove wrapped his arms more tightly around her. The warmth of his skin seeped in. His male scent pummeled her senses again. She heard his beating heart, his even breaths. He felt so human.
"Perhaps a few days." He shook his head. "I don't know."
An ugly truth. The idea of being so close to Mason's compelling half brother for even that long petrified her.
"Over there!" she heard through the wind's howl, then looked up to see a swarm of paparazzi sprinting behind the estate, across the snowy lawn and toward them, flashbulbs popping with each step.
Hurstgrove picked up the pace, darting for the outbuilding that held his autos. He showed no signs of tiring. Under his tuxedo, he was solid muscle.
"I can walk," she protested.
"The snow will ruin your dress and shoes."
Likely, but a slight stench told her that wasn't the only reason he carried her. "Be reasonable. I'm not exactly a feather. If we're rushing to safety, and you're going to fatigue--"
"Not for some time."
Under her hands, his shoulders and arms were spine-tinglingly hard. Felicia shoved the thought away. "Clearly, you exercise, but--"
"Marrok is like the most demanding personal trainer. On fast forward. In an endless loop. Trust me; he's ensured this is little effort."
"I understand that I'm in danger. I won't run from you."
He shot her a regretful glance. "Sorry. I'm not convinced."
Before she could argue, Hurstgrove shouldered his way inside the building, then kicked the door closed behind, stooping to lock it. As he turned, she saw Bram. How had he beaten them here?
He sat behind the wheel of a very expensive black Italian sports car. Convertible.
Who owned such an impractical vehicle in a climate that got nearly as much rain as sun?
A duke.
Bram revved the engine, then ducked out of the driver's seat to stand beside it.
"Get her in. You'd best leave quickly. I have a bad feeling."
His Grace strode to the passenger door, slid her into the seat, buckled her in, and shut her inside. Black leather. Flawless. Powerful. Imposing.
She grabbed at the door handle, scrambling to find a way out, but Hurstgrove blocked her path on one side, Bram on the other. "Agreed. I'd rather use my ... usual method of transportation."
"Try it?" Bram asked.
"Useless, which I expected. Try it yourself."
What the devil were they talking about?
Felicia leaned across the seat and watched as the blond man stood very still and closed his eyes, straining slightly.
Bram expected that to take him someplace? Like "Beam me up, Scotty"? What were Hurstgrove and his friends? Aliens?
The other man opened his eyes. "Totally nonfunctional. Damn. You'd best go.
Your signature has damn near become a beacon. Meet us at Ice's?"
"Hopefully by tomorrow afternoon." Hurstgrove slid into the driver's seat, buckled up, and rolled down the window. "I'll ring you along the way."
Bram pressed a button and raised the garage door. "I should come with you.
Safety in numbers."
Hurstgrove looked in the rearview mirror, then swore. "Too late. Get the guests out of the chapel, to safety. You'll have to stay and fight."
Felicia whipped her head around to look out the driver's window and saw a mass of black-robed men marching toward the house.
Chapter 4
FELICIA GASPED. "W HO is that?"
Duke ignored the question and sent Bram a grim glance.
This rescue was going to hell fast. He had a reluctant hostage, an infuriated groom, and paparazzi following him round the back of his supposedly private estate.
Trespassing bastards. He could only hope that Zain skipped a day or two of reading the tabloids. If not, Mathias would know quickly that Duke had spirited Felicia away and guess why.
"Go. Now," the other wizard ordered. "Whatever it takes to keep her safe ..."
Absolutely. Duke would do it, no questions asked.
Rolling up the tinted windows, he backed out of the garage slowly, lights killed.
He couldn't attract attention.
"Duck," he demanded of Felicia.
She didn't. Wide-eyed, she stared out the back window at the hooded figures amassing in the gardens. "There are so many of them! Who--"
"Duck!" He grabbed her neck and pulled her head down.
Her cheek hit his thigh, and he felt Felicia panting through his trousers. He got hard. Again. Damn it.
"What the devil are you doing?" She struggled against his hold.
"Hiding you from a madman. Stay the bloody hell down!"
A moment later, Mathias emerged from the middle of the Anarki pack. Duke's fingers tightened in Felicia's hair. Horror gripped him as the wind whipped the evil wizard's long hair away from his deceptively youthful face, revealing a smile of evil glee.
It took everything inside Duke not to turn back to protect his family and their guests when Mathias raised his hands to the wall, as if readying to demolish it with a spell.
To Duke's surprise, no bricks tumbled to the ground.
Holy hell! He glanced down at Felicia, her shoulders hunched beside the gearshift.
He'd known magic would be impossible when she was near; that was the nature of an Untouchable. But Mathias was at least two hundred meters away.
Her suppression of magic was that strong? That made her a force to be reckoned with. And a huge target for Mathias.