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buried in consecrated ground, Peter, rather than
in that cesspit.”
    Peter’s
blood chilled at the thought of Jemima’s body, cold and lifeless. A
wave of physical pain blossomed from his chest, spreading outwards
in a misery that numbed his senses. He glared absently at the
bottle before him, and was about to take another drink when a pale
and visibly shaken Sebastian appeared beside them.
    “ Let’s go,” Sebastian suggested, snatching the bottle from
under Peter’s nose and taking a fortifying swig directly from it.
He hoped that it would wash away some of the horrors he had just
witnessed, but knew it would take far, far more than a few swigs of
watered-down brandy.
    “ You have her?” Peter asked softly, eyeing his friend’s
haggard features.
    Clearly
Sebastian was shaken by the morning’s events. His usually handsome
face was drawn, his blue eyes troubled and turbulent. Deep grooves
now sat on either side of his mouth, matching the wrinkles that
marred his high brow.
    Peter
suddenly realised just how traumatic the morning must have been for
everyone, not just himself. He felt some of his anger diminish,
only to be replaced with soul-deep sorrow. However deeply the
brothers had been affected by the last few hours, they didn’t have
the connection to Jemima that he had. He had been the one who had
slept with her. He had been the one who had made promises to help
her. He had been the one who had failed to keep his
promises.
    The
sudden memory of Dominic’s ordeal when Isobel faced death came to,
and he had a better understanding of just what Dominic had gone
through. Only this time was different, because Dominic had been
given a second chance. Isobel had been alive and, although ill, had
found her way back to him to seek the help he had readily offered
her.
    For
Jemima, there had been no second chances. He had blundered, and
fumbled, and been useless in offering her any assistance at all,
leaving her to a humiliatingly public death. God knows what horrors
she had experienced in her final moments.
    Anger
and self disgust swept through him as he pushed to his feet, moving
through the doorway of the tavern in a dark haze of grief. The
morning sunlight hurt his eyes as he approached the crude wooden
cart sitting directly outside the door.
    His eyes
met and held Edward’s solemn gaze briefly before he moved to the
back of the cart and climbed aboard. His gaze locked on the outline
of the body clearly visible beneath the thick blankets.
    With
shaking hands he slowly drew the blanket down, away from her face,
and swallowed the cry of denial that threatened to choke him.
Although he had known he was fighting for her life in Simpson’s
office, the stark reality of seeing her lifeless face for himself
scarred his soul.
    Oblivious to the hustle and bustle of the busy thoroughfare,
tenderly he trailed a blunt finger down her cold, alabaster face.
She was like cold marble. It pained him to feel her so cold. So
lifeless. He wished he could see her amber gaze smiling at him just
once more.
    “ God, Jemima, I’m sorry,” he whispered softly, his heart a
heavy lump in his chest. “I failed you, and I am so
sorry.”
    Swiping
at the moisture on his cheeks, he sucked in a deep breath, aware
that, as he jumped down, Edward leaned backward in his seat and
covered her face again; something Peter couldn’t bring himself to
do. To cover her in such a way meant admitting she had gone beyond
his reach, and he simply couldn’t do it. He didn’t need to pull the
thick blanket down further to see the markings on her neck. She
seemed so peaceful, almost ethereal; almost as though she was
waiting for something, or someone to come along so she could open
her eyes. He willed her to do so, but knew it was futile. She was
gone. Dead.
    “ Come on, let’s get out of here,” Dominic muttered, aware that
they were drawing the interest of curious eyes.
    After
several moments, Peter moved to his horse, taking the reins Dominic
held out to