by Mandy Goff
Once Finley had stalked off, Olivia looked back at Gibbons. “I can handle him,” she assured the butler, but she wished her voice sounded more confident.
“Your brother won’t be happy to hear of this,” Gibbons said. But the ominous words didn’t have the desired effect. Marcus was either going to come back home to discover she was engaged to his best friend, or he’d eventually find out she was marrying Finley. She could hardly fear her brother’s inevitable displeasure now.
“Go to bed, Gibbons,” she said kindly. “He won’t hurt me,” she told the still-skeptical-looking servant.
At least she hoped he wouldn’t.
Olivia didn’t wait for Gibbons to move away before she went to join Finley in the morning room. But she did have enough presence of mind to call out, “No eavesdropping,” over her shoulder as she walked away.
She had no delusions Gibbons would obey her command.
“What do you think you’re doing here?” she asked Finley without preamble, as she closed the door behind her.
“That’s a nice look for you,” the baron said instead, taking in her appearance with a long, lingering look. “You’ll wear that once we’re married.” It wasn’t a request but a command.
“Let’s talk about why you’re here right now, and not what you think of my attire.” She crossed her arms over herself in an attempt to add an extra barrier between herself and her future husband’s probing eyes.
Finley dropped any pretense of good humor. “You know why I’m here.”
Of course she did. But she wasn’t going to be the one to begin the conversation.
Apparently, Finley didn’t mind leading the discussion on her indiscretion and accidental betrothal to another man. “Did you not think I would hear about you and Huntsford?”
Olivia refused to cower from the anger in his tone. Finley was the one responsible for the disastrous scene in the garden. She wouldn’t take the blame for something he had begun. “No, I knew you would find out.”
Her frankness must have flustered the baron because he blinked at her several times. “How could you allow such a story to circulate?”
The baron was perilously close to seeing her temper ignite. “What exactly did you think would happen after you led me out there and then tried to maul me against a tree?” she growled.
“You should never have left with Huntsford,” he accused. “You ran! Need I remind you it took nothing more than an angry look from Lord Huntsford for you to flee….”
He stalked up to her, grabbing her shoulder with a bruising grip. “I. Did. Not. Run.”
Olivia had passed the point where her tongue was guarded by her better sense. “Yes, you did,” she goaded. “You were frightened as soon as Nick looked at you.”
She could tell she’d spoken too much by the look in his eyes.
Finley called her a word she’d only ever heard a few of the servants whisper to one another. He grabbed her face in one hand, squeezing until her lips puckered, and she felt as though he would loosen some of her teeth. “Did you call him Nick?”
It must have been a burst of insanity, but she found it funny he would fixate on that. “I did, Lord Finley.” His grip on her face mangled the words, but he understood well enough.
With no warning, he released his hold and slammed the back of his hand against her cheek. Her head snapped to the side, and she gasped for breath. The air in the room seemed to grow thin and sparse. Her hand went automatically to the throbbing skin. She tasted the warm bitterness of her own blood.
Finley stood a foot from her, his shoulders heaving and his face an ugly, mottled red.
Olivia could think of a hundred things to say to him. A hundred different ways to convey her disdain and anger, but she bit each hateful word back. Instead, she raised her chin and smiled.
“You may make me your bride,” she said slowly, clearly. “But you will never have me.” She didn’t understand her own words, but apparently, Finley did because he reared back his hand again.
The sound of a pistol being cocked stopped the newest threat.
“If you so much as try,” a voice said, “it will be the last thing you ever do.”
Olivia could have fainted in relief at Nick’s unexpected presence. Finley froze, his arm suspended in mid-swing. She felt, rather than saw, Nick moving closer to her, stepping between her and Finley.
The pistol in his grip didn’t waver, nor did his voice. “Leave. Now.”
Olivia’s accusations of cowardice must have been playing through Finley’s mind because he refused to budge. “You’re the one who needs to be leaving.”
“Olivia is my betrothed. She is also under my protection while her brother is away. You have no right or claim to be here. She is mine.” Nick’s gun moved the smallest bit toward the baron’s chest.
“Plan on calling a magistrate to send me away?” Finley asked, clearly torn somewhere on the line between bravado and insanity.
“No.” Nick’s voice was a calm, rational counterpart to Olivia’s mounting hysteria. “I’ll kill you.”
The marquess’s voice was cold, devoid of any emotion, of any logic telling him he couldn’t very well follow through on his threat. She began to fear for him, wondering how much of the man she saw right now was a remnant from his war experiences. She could only see him in profile, and then solely by the dim light of the candles flickering in the room.
Nick’s jaw was clenched so tightly it looked as though his teeth might shatter. Olivia’s feet moved toward him before her mind could caution her against the wisdom of her actions. Her only concern was to keep Nick from blowing Finley’s fool head off his shoulders.
Her hand touched the arm of his coat. “Nick,” she said quietly, but he didn’t turn to look at her. “Let’s put the gun down. Finley’s leaving now.”
“No, I’m not,” Finley called out.
Olivia silenced the baron with a wave of her hand.
Nick still had not moved, his features and stance as rigid as any marble statue. So Olivia, much like Nick had done for her, moved to put herself between the two men. She doubted Nick would shoot her. And hopefully, Finley would be quiet once he realized how dangerous this situation could be for him.
But what she had not thought about was Nick would actually get the opportunity to see her face. Her face that was bruised and cut from Finley’s earlier strike.
Nick noticed immediately. The gun didn’t drop or waver, but his eyes fell to her cheek. “He’s already struck you?” The voice was strangled, mingled with anger and violence.
Her rescuer didn’t wait for her to answer. The condemning evidence made her confirmation unnecessary. Nick was around her before Olivia knew what was happening.
Nick pressed his gun under Finley’s chin, tilting the baron’s head back with the weapon until Finley looked most uncomfortable. Olivia began praying diligently that Nick would find the restraint not to shoot the baron. Not that he probably didn’t deserve some sort of punishment, but Nick didn’t need a death on his conscience.
God must have agreed with her.
Rather than pulling the hair trigger, Nick jammed Finley’s head backward a bit more. “I could shoot you,” he threatened in a deceptively soft voice. “And I probably should.”
But the gun was gone as quickly as it had been there. “Get out, before I change my mind.”
Finley must have decided during the interchange that he had no more desire to risk his life because he stalked past the marquess. As he attempted to shoulder past Olivia, he muttered, “I’ll return later to finish our discussion.”
The warning was the last thing she could be concerned about. Though the front door had slammed closed, Nick stood in the center of the room, rigid and staring as though he could see through the wall and out to where Finley had departed. As she watched him, Olivia took in his attire. He wore a greatcoat over a rumpled lawn shirt. And while his breeches and boots didn’t seem out of order, the entire ensemble had the look of something hastily thrown toge
ther.
“How did you know to come?” she asked. The words broke the silence, but didn’t break through his haze. Olivia wondered if he was going to answer.
“Gibbons sent for me when he saw Finley’s coach pull up outside.” He turned to face her finally. “You should have waited for me to get here.”
“I didn’t know you were coming,” she defended, trying to dispel some of his anger. “Then you should have sent for me.”
He never would have gotten her message because he would have already been on his way. Olivia decided not to mention that.
“Come here,” he said, but his voice was a question, not a demand. He moved to sit on the settee, leaving her enough room to sit beside him.
She could think of many, exhaustive reasons to refuse.
But she didn’t.
“Does it hurt much?” Nick asked as he touched the side of her face. Vainly, she wondered how badly it would bruise, and then, practically, wondered how she was going to explain its presence to other people. Her brother especially.
She supposed, however, Nick would be more than willing to pass the story on to her brother.
“Not too much,” she answered, then hesitated. “Please don’t tell Marcus.”
Nick nodded, giving her his vow. He stroked her face with the back of his fingers, and the light touch elicited a small flinch of pain from her. “I could kill him,” Nick said.
Olivia knew he wasn’t talking to her. Nor was she going to answer. She had every suspicion Nick would be chastising himself later, and she’d not add any guilt or responsibility onto him.
She was suddenly so tired she couldn’t think past the next syllable she wanted to say. But she mustered the strength to turn and look at Nick.
“May I ask a favor?” She dimly thought her words sounded slurred.
He nodded, although he still seemed lost in his private contemplation.
“May I rest against you? Just for a moment?”
Nick didn’t answer. Instead, he wrapped his arms around her, pulling her back until she was cradled against his chest. Olivia wasn’t sure what happened to the pistol…wasn’t sure she wanted to know, either. Sometimes ignorance was wisest.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Nick knew as soon as Olivia’s breathing leveled to a deep, even pattern that Olivia’s fatigue had won its battle against her desire to remain awake. With exorbitant care, he rose from the settee. His future bride didn’t object when he lifted her in his arms and cradled her against his chest. Instead, she snuggled against him, as though burrowing for warmth.
Nick was tempted to sit again. To hold this woman until the sun rose and he was forced by propriety to leave. But soon enough, he wouldn’t have to part from her, wouldn’t have to whip his horse into a lather riding across town to save her. No, she would stay with him always, and he would protect her.
Gibbons was waiting outside the door when Nick used his free hand to open it.
“Thank you, my lord,” the servant whispered. Relief etched itself across every line of his expression. “I feared what harm would come to her while we waited for you.”
“You were right to send for me,” Nick assured him. “And she, unfortunately, has met with harm enough.”
Gibbons looked at his mistress’s face, and the color drained from his own. “Baron Finley did that?” he asked.
Nick nodded, although confirmation hardly seemed necessary. “Will you show me to her chamber? Your lady needs sleep now.”
The butler nodded and led the way upstairs. Nick walked past him, into the bedroom, and laid Olivia on the bed. He pulled the blankets over her, trying to ignore the stab of emptiness he felt once she was out of his arms. Gibbons didn’t follow him in, nor did the old man leave his post at the open doorway. Nick smiled at the servant’s protectiveness.
He contented himself with brushing a kiss across her cheek, and Olivia sighed in response. Whatever latent anger was still bubbling inside Nick lost some of its intensity at the innocent noise. He forced himself to walk away from the bed, to walk out the door, even though he felt he was leaving part of him behind.
“Should I send word to his lordship?” Gibbons asked.
“When is he expected home?”
“No more than a few days hence.”
Nick thought. He’d given Olivia his word. Further, Olivia was soon to be his wife, his responsibility, and he’d handled the threat.
Besides, he and Marcus had enough to discuss once the earl returned.
Nick wondered if they would still be friends once the talking was done.
“Leave it be,” Nick finally said. “The damage has been done, and Marcus might well not take our word that his sister isn’t gravely injured. It wouldn’t do for him to leave from the country in the middle of the night and show up on Finley’s doorstep demanding satisfaction.”
Gibbons nodded in agreement.
Nick could have made myriad excuses as to why he needed to stay by Olivia’s side. Fear Finley might return. Concern she would be worried and frightened even if he didn’t.
A pure and simple desire not to let the woman out of his sight.
But he bade Gibbons a good night—for what was left of it—and went to retrieve his mount and head home.
The space and distance would be good for him. They would give him an opportunity to cool his anger and bloodlust. He’d not felt this way—this consuming urge to violence—since his time early days in France. Back then, he’d been idealistic about his missions and convinced of his divine right to vengeance. But with age had come temperance. And it had been so long since he’d felt that surging and mounting desire to pull the trigger, the intensity had been nearly overwhelming. For a moment, Nick had not known himself what he was going to do…what he was capable of doing.
That had frightened him.
But he’d let Finley live.
Whether Marcus would have extended the same mercy was a different story. But Nick knew as much as he wanted to, and as justified as he might have been, he couldn’t return to the man he used to be. He wouldn’t have his future wife look on him with horror and fear.
Thinking about Olivia caused a pang in his chest. When he thought about what would have happened had he been delayed by mere minutes…
It wouldn’t do him any good to dwell, he decided.
One thing was certain, however, he and his intended were going to have a lengthy discussion.
Very, very lengthy.
And very, very soon.
Nick wasn’t sure why Finley felt he had the right to show up at Olivia’s home in the middle of the night, but Nick was more than willing to set the situation straight for him. And while he couldn’t understand what ties existed between Olivia and the baron, he was fully prepared to sever them.
Marcus arrived exactly five days later.
Olivia wasn’t waiting at the door to welcome him but he heard a loud commotion coming from the drawing room. She must be in there.
“My lord,” Gibbons greeted.
Marcus grinned. “You know, Gibbons, I almost missed you while I was gone.”
“I can assure you, my lord, you were alone in your suffering.” But the butler’s grin belied his words.
“Is my sister in?” Marcus asked, fairly sure the answer was a yes.
“Last I checked, my lord.” Something about the old man seemed out of character.
“With her suitors?” Marcus chuckled, heading in the direction of the sitting room.
“Not in several days, my lord.”
The young earl puzzled at the statement but didn’t bother to ask for a further explanation.
Marcus was rounding a corner when he almost tripped over a lady.
“Beg your pardon, my lady,” he said with a dramatic little bow.
“Oh! Lord Westin. How wonderful to bump into you.” The short, pudgy woman was near sixty, but she blushed as she raked her eyes over the young man.
“The pleasure is mine.” He made a move to leave, but she put a
hand out to touch his sleeve.
“You must be positively thrilled!” she trilled.
“Um, yes. Yes, I am.” Granted, he was glad to be home, but Marcus thought her enthusiasm a bit overdone.
“I’ve been saying all along it would happen. And it was very gratifying to be proven correct.” She smiled at him, waiting for a response.
What lunacy had transpired during his absence? “Yes, I can see how it would be.”
The older woman leaned closer to him, dropping her voice to a whisper, although there was no one else about. “And I wouldn’t worry about the bit of gossip circulating about the two of them in the garden. Granted it was—from all accounts—a bit risqué. But betrothed couples can, of course, be given a bit more latitude and forgiveness.”
A distinctly sour taste filled Marcus’s mouth. “Of course,” he ground through clenched teeth.
The woman patted his arm. “I’m sure you are pleased your sister is finally marrying so well. Even if everything has been in a bit of a rush, it’s better than sitting on the shelf.”
Marcus saw red. “If you’ll excuse me, I must meet with my sister—about wedding arrangements.”
This made the woman titter all over again, but Marcus barely paid her any heed as he vaulted the stairs up to his sister’s rooms. Fury stole over him, and he needed to talk to Olivia before he lost all control.
Olivia was reclining absent-mindedly on the settee in the sitting room adjoining her bedchamber. A book rested across her lap, but she’d not glanced at its pages in several hours. She’d closeted herself in her chambers most of the time. The bruise on her cheek was fading quite nicely, and along with the rice powder she applied throughout the day, it was almost impossible to tell it was still there.
A quick knock came at the door, but before she could call out, it flew open.
“What have you done?” Marcus shouted as he entered.
After the barest of glances at his face, she realized he knew.
Without sparing a moment for a greeting, she asked, “How did you find out?”
