“Oswyn,” he said automatically. There wasn’t another outside Ryker, Calum, Adair, and Helena whom Niall trusted more. He’d been the first man in their employ, and he’d proven his loyalty countless times through the years. He silently inventoried the duke’s Mayfair residence. A servant’s entrance in the kitchens. The front doors. “I’ll require four guards, in addition,” he said at last, erring on a greater number. He’d doubted Diana before. He’d not be so careless where her life was concerned. Not again.
“It is done,” Ryker agreed. He looked to Adair. “Adair will remain behind, as well. Calum stays at the club.”
If the other man felt any of the same misgivings and annoyance at being sent to live among the nobility, he didn’t show it.
“You’ll also want guards on Helena,” Niall reminded him, and worry darkened Ryker’s eyes. “I’ve already sent word to Somerset.” Having retired to their country estates for the summer, Helena and her husband would be unaware of what had unfolded and be easy prey for it. And yet—Niall moved, restless—Diana hadn’t been murdered in her bed. In Diggory’s unscrupulous world of “kill or be killed,” the only revenge that would matter was ending a person. It wouldn’t have mattered who did it, or how, or when. He stopped before that painting of St. George’s and stared at those cerulean waters—a mythical paradise with pink sand so at odds with the hellish reality of this world. He captured his chin in his hand. By Diana’s remembrance of the morning attack, however, someone not only wished her dead but also wanted the rights to that task.
A shadow fell over the painting.
“I am grateful to you for saving Diana.”
Tension brought his shoulders back. “Did ya think Oi wouldn’t?” he demanded, directing that harsh query to the canvas.
“I believe you’d lay your life down to save any member of our family, even those not deeply connected to us.” Like Diana.
With a blade against her jugular, commanding Niall to not release his weapon, she’d shown more courage than any man in the Dials faced with that same ghastly fate. For her courage and strength, she was more like them than Ryker would ever credit . . . and more than Niall would have liked, too. Still, Ryker treated her as one of the others.
“I know this is not the assignment you wanted.” Now, it was. Somewhere along the way everything had shifted and changed, making Niall’s once logical world murky. Now, he’d sooner use his own knife and cut himself before turning Diana over to anyone else—his brothers included. “If you—”
“My place is here,” he said curtly, turning around. He’d trust implicitly his own life to Adair or Calum. But this wasn’t Niall’s worthless hide—this was Diana.
Ryker nodded once. His gaze moved to a point past Niall’s shoulder. “Interesting painting,” he remarked casually, when there never was, nor ever would be, a thing casual about the impassible gaming-hell proprietor.
Stiffening, Niall followed his stare over to another rendering. Diana’s form could easily be made out upon that canvas, alongside Niall’s scowling self. Heat prickled across his cheeks, and his fingers tugged uncomfortably at his cravat.
“Mayhap we can purchase it for the club?” Adair suggested, in the first mark of levity for the day.
Niall turned up his middle finger at his chuckling brother.
“The next thing you’ll tell me is you’re taking tea and biscuits with the lady.”
Pastries.
“What was that?” Ryker asked, shock set in his features.
Christ, now he was talking aloud? What was life in Mayfair doing to him?
The heat of embarrassment rushed to his neck, and he cleared his throat. “Given what happened here a few hours ago, I think it’s hardly the time to be ribbing me or making jests,” he said impatiently. Then, that had always been the way of St. Giles. A person killed or an attempt on one’s life was just another day in the streets. As such, they’d not see this day as any different. Niall flexed his jaw. Where Penelope’s near murder had reduced Ryker to an incoherent, irrational shell of a street tough.
Ryker gave Adair a look. “Of course,” Ryker said solemnly. He jerked his chin, making for the front of the room. Then paused. “If you require anything, send word immediately.”
Niall nodded. As soon as he’d gone and Adair went off to perform another interview of the servants, Niall started down the opposite hall and headed abovestairs. Needing to see Diana. To confirm she was, in fact, all right. He had seen more dead bodies and killed more men than an undertaker in London. Until he drew his last breath, he’d recall her terror-filled eyes as her assailant had her about the waist. His stomach pitched.
If I’d searched her rooms first . . . If I’d been there, she would have been untouched by that ugly . . .
Niall came to a stop outside her chambers, just as the door opened. Diana’s maid rushed into the hall, hurriedly stepping past Oswyn.
“How is Lady Diana?” Niall put to her as soon as she’d closed the door.
The girl paled, averting her eyes from the new fierce guard stationed outside her mistress’s rooms. “H-Her Ladyship is resting,” the maid said, her voice threadbare. “Asked to be left alone this morning.”
Given the excitement of a few hours ago, it was only natural Diana would require sleep. After the battle, when one’s heart beat a normal cadence and reality trickled in, it brought a bone-weary exhaustion. And yet . . . Niall slid a frustrated gaze at the doorway. He’d foolishly thought—hoped?—she needed to see him as much as he did her.
The maid shuffled back and forth on her feet.
“That will be all,” he said brusquely, and she darted off. Niall promptly set up sentry alongside Oswyn.
“Ya need to rest, Niall.” The old guard spoke the way a father might to a son. Might. Niall knew less about father–son bonds than he did the rules of London High Society.
“I’m not leaving,” he said, gaze forward.
“Niall. Oi’m here. Go.” Oswyn settled a heavy, scarred palm on Niall’s shoulder. It was a strong one. A capable one that had saved Niall’s arse more times than he’d deserved. “Nothing will happen to the lady the three hours ya’re sleeping,” he urged, sensing Niall’s waver.
With a reluctant glance back at her doorway, Niall started for his chambers.
Chapter 16
All people reacted differently to seeing a man shot.
Some cried. Others fainted. Some trembled, paled, and went silent.
Diana had retreated.
Or in this case, presented a false show, humming and painting and carrying on just as she had since the first day Niall entered the Duke of Wilkinson’s employ. And avoiding a goddamned word with Niall.
It had been two days since the brute had attacked her in her bedchambers, and despite his efforts to speak with her, she remained largely smiling and terse in her replies.
If he were a man capable of laughter, this ironic moment would certainly be a time for those explosions of mirth. Since he’d entered the duke’s home, he’d wanted Diana Verney to cease her prattling, questioning, and interest in him. Now she’d done just that, and he mourned the loss of the person she’d been around him.
Standing guard at the front of the room, Niall boldly studied her movements. She angled her palette occasionally and dashed her brush over the previously blank canvas.
Mayhap it isn’t that she’s retreated. Mayhap she’s seen you for the bloody monster you are. He firmed his jaw. It had been inevitable. For all her efforts to turn him into a friend of sorts, he’d always been Niall, the bastard with a made-up surname who didn’t even own a birthday. Unlike those fancy gents with their long names and titles. A kind of gent she deserved. He went still. Not that he wanted to be deserving of her. There was no reason. He’d no interest for anyone in his life. He had his club, and she, despite her protestations of the contrary, would one day wed one of those lily-white lords without blood on his hands.
His patience snapped. “Are ya done?”
Diana paused,
her brush dipped upon that palette.
She couldn’t even bloody look at him. His annoyance spiraled, and he fed that vastly safer emotion.
“I just started—”
He cast a hard glance at the maid who’d also set up sentry whenever Diana and Niall were alone. The girl jerked to her feet, embroidery frame in hand, and beat a hasty exit. Niall yanked the door closed.
A frown on her crimson bow-shaped lips, Diana turned slowly around and glanced about for her maid.
She is afraid of you. It is there in her avoidance of your eyes.
“Mr.—?”
“If you call me Mr. Marksman,” he seethed, “I’m going to turn you over my goddamned knee.”
Her mouth formed a perfect circle, and with the same hesitancy she’d shown four weeks earlier when he’d found her skulking around his alley, she set her palette down and rested her brush on the edge of it. “Did you just threaten to spank me?”
Except, even with her indignant shock, she’d conjured wicked images, delightful ones of her sprawled naked on his lap, while he caressed the rounded swells of her buttocks with his palm.
“Oi should,” he countered, his voice garbled to his own ears. “You’re behaving like a child.”
Diana’s gaze shot to his. Outrage blazed to life, that volatile emotion giving her cheeks color and fully restoring her to the unwavering lady who’d tossed his world upside down. “How dare you?” she demanded.
It did not escape his notice, however, that she made little attempt to move away from that frame canvas. Shrugging out of his jacket, Niall tossed it into a noisy heap atop the blue upholstered sofa.
“Wh-what are you doing?” she squeaked.
Doing what he should have done when he first arrived here. Only, he’d been remiss. He’d failed to believe any real threat existed, and it had nearly cost her. Fear turned over inside. He’d not make that mistake again. Niall dragged the sofa, pulling it alongside the edge of the room.
“Niall?”
So, he was Niall again? The fickle traitor. Not trusting his anger, Niall hefted the table out from the center of the room and deposited it on the opposite side.
“Ya don’t have to like me,” he informed her, his voice breathless from his exertions as he heaved a King Louis XIV chair from its usual position. “Hell, ya do not even ’ave to talk to me.” He paused to dust the back of his shirtsleeves over his perspiring brow. “Oi told ya from my first day here, Oi’m not here to be your friend.” She’d insisted otherwise. She’d invited him for goddamned tea and pastries and ordered him to sit. She’d asked him of his past and shared hers. And now she’d simply cut him from her life like he was an inconvenient thread from her gown that needed snipping?
At her silence, he looked up. Did he detect a flash of pain in her innocent doe eyes? Or did he simply imagine that out of his own pathetic musings? For her delicate features were solemnly set, at odds with the smiling miss she’d been moments ago. A muscle ticked away at the corner of his eye. Her guarded expression served as another unnecessary reminder that he was the manner of man who destroyed all around him: life, happiness. Those were illusive dreams that belonged to another. What he was capable of, however, was unwavering strength—keeping people alive. And by God, he’d keep her alive.
Niall unsheathed his dagger, and at the hiss of metal, Diana gasped.
She stumbled back, knocking into her canvas. The frame tipped sideways and landed on the floor with a loud crack. Her canvas joined it in a sad heap, and the recently painted strokes bled like crimson-and-emerald teardrops, running down the page.
He came forward, not taking his gaze from her. “Wh-what are you doing?” she panted, flicking her gaze over the rearranged furniture.
The truth slammed into him. Why . . . she sought for a place to hide.
Pain exploded in his chest. She knew him so little that she believed him capable of hurting her. Niall pointed the first weapon he’d acquired after he’d joined Ryker’s ranks across the room, directly at Diana. “Ya need to learn to protect yourself. Oi won’t always be here.”
Her face spasmed, briefly reflecting his own inner turmoil to that truth. Bah, she doesn’t feel regret. She feels a goddamned deserved fear of the monster you are. Of the monster you’ve always been and will always be.
He stalked over to her in three long strides, and Diana sprinted sideways. Too late. Niall shot a hand out, enfolding her wrist, ending her retreat before she’d made it even a foot. Niall shoved the hilt of his dagger into her hand.
She flexed her fingers, making no attempt to take it. “What is this?”
It was a weapon that mattered as much as his own club, that he’d never let another person touch—including his siblings—until her.
“Take it,” he directed.
“I’m not—”
Niall stuck his face in hers. “Oi said take the knife, Diana.”
Her breath came in little spurts. It fanned over his lips, mint and chocolate and the taste of fear just as tangible upon them. Diana gave her head a tight shake. “I’ll not do it, Niall,” she whispered.
He narrowed his eyes. “Take the goddamned knife.”
Despite the rapid rise and fall of her chest, she remained resolute. Shoulders back, proud and unflinching like a gang leader marched to the gallows, holding on to her pride until the end. In her bold determination, she was both breathtaking and exasperating, and he didn’t know whether to kiss her senseless or give her a damned shake.
She darted her tongue out over her lips, and he swallowed a groan at his weakness for her. With a curse, Niall spun away from her. “Ya won’t learn to defend yourself?” He attempted a different approach. A call to her logic and reason. “You, the same woman who came to St. Giles in a hired hack and asked for a guard—”
“I did not ask for a guard,” she gritted out. “Ryker supplied one.”
One. “Me.”
Diana tipped her head at an endearing angle.
Niall jabbed the heel of his dagger against his chest. “He supplied me, princess. But ya are one of those ladies who doesn’t want blood on her hands,” he chided with a forced derision that sent the color draining from her cheeks. “Ya want to be coddled and pampered,” he continued over her indignant gasp, deliberately needling, “content to paint your damned happy images, while other people protect—”
She shot her palm out. Those long, slender digits trembled slightly, ravaging him. It is for her good. Niall had always known the ways to force a man to movement. Diana was no exception. “Give me,” she seethed. She was a proud, courageous woman who’d not sacrifice another person’s life because of her own weakness.
Niall pressed the jewel-encrusted dagger in her hand. Purchased honorably with the first funds he’d earned at the Hell and Sin, Niall had vowed to reshape his life and never work for anyone but himself.
Diana weighed it experimentally, as though testing its mass, familiarizing herself with the feel of it. This blade that had saved Niall’s worthless hide more times than he’d deserved.
“It’s a simple tool,” he instructed. “A silent one, and dangerous not only to the person being assaulted but also to the person holding it.” He moved into position behind her and captured her hand. “If you’ll not do it for yourself, learn for the people you care about.”
She tilted her head back. “I can’t stab a person, Niall.” Through her thick golden lashes, desire poured from her eyes. Of its own volition, his head dipped. He froze. And then, drawn helplessly nearer for another taste of her, Niall lowered his mouth closer still. Diana closed her eyes and leaned up, offering her mouth to him, her meaning clear: she wanted him. Desired him, still. She might view him as a monster, but he was a man she still hungered for. A bitter resentment coursed through him as he hastily stepped out of her arms.
“Fine. Then hit me.”
He may as well have stated his intentions to overthrow the king for the befuddlement that glimmered in her hazed eyes. “Hit you?” she croaked.
> Reining in his lust, Niall plucked the knife from her fingers and tossed it to the floor. The tip lodged in the once immaculate hardwood, and the blade thrummed back and forth with the force of his throw. “You need some way to defend yourself.”
Wide-eyed, Diana alternated her stare between Niall and the dagger.
He rolled up his sleeves.
With every inch of his arm flesh exposed, Diana’s golden eyebrows shot up so high, they’d disappear into her hairline soon.
Niall stood with arms at his sides. “Well?” he urged.
“You’re mad,” she whispered.
She remained motionless as he circled her. “You need to keep your chin down.” He positioned her head, lingering his fingers on the satiny expanse of her nape. Another wave of desire went through him. “And cover your face,” he murmured and, moving directly in front of Diana, brought her arms up into the correct fighting pose.
Letting out a sigh, Diana tossed out an ineffectual jab. It didn’t even graze him. “There. Now, are we done?” Without allowing a reply, she stepped around him.
Niall caught her around the waist, ringing a breathless gasp from her as he brought her back before the mirror. “We’re not finished,” he whispered, his lips a hairbreadth from her mouth. “Until I indicate your lesson is over and you’re sufficiently trained. Are we clear?” Such commands came from ordering about the guards who answered to him inside the Hell and Sin.
Diana shook her head. That jerky movement nearly brought their mouths together. “I’ll not be ordered about.”
He slid his eyes closed. Of course she wouldn’t. She could not. She was a slender Spartan warrior woman and a siren at sea rolled into one, and he and any man would be hopeless against her commands.
“Very well. Will you please bring your arms up,” he urged, demonstrating the stance.
She complied.
“Now hit me.”
He is mad.
And Diana only knew so with the confidence of a woman who was headed for a future of lunacy, but she’d sooner lop off her arm than put her hands upon this man in violence.
The Lady's Guard (Sinful Brides Book 3) Page 20
