The Good, The Bad, And The Scandalous (The Heart of a Hero Book 7)

by Cora Lee

  “Exactly.”

  She covered his hand at her waist with her cold fingers but didn’t reply. They simply continued their steady walk toward the Abbey in silence.

  About halfway down the road Hart heard footsteps crunching softly behind them. But before he could even turn his head to locate the source of the noise, Sarah was ripped from him and disappeared into the darkness.

  Then he heard her screaming.

  “Sarah!”

  He felt the hard tip of a knife pressed against his back. “Move and I’ll gut you like a fish.”

  He slowly raised his hands to shoulder height, palms out to show he wasn’t armed. “Just because you have a fish on your line doesn’t mean you’ll eat it for dinner.”

  “What?”

  Hart whirled around, kicking his leg out and using his momentum to take out his assailant’s knee. The crack of splintering bone hit Hart’s ears like a hammer on one of his anvils, and the lantern hit the ground and extinguished itself. The assailant dropped to one knee but swung his arm out, wildly slashing the air with his knife. Sarah’s screams had grown more frantic and Hart’s pulse raced. Nothing was more important than getting to her. He dodged the blade and got in close, landing a solid punch to the assailant’s face. The man landed on his back in the middle of the road but continued flailing. Hart couldn’t tell if the man was trying to rise or to injure his quarry from where he lay, but he didn’t have time to find out. Stepping on his attacker’s wrist convinced the man to drop the knife, and Hart grabbed it up as he charged toward Sarah’s voice.

  A second attacker had wrapped her in his arms from behind, not all that differently from Hart’s own demonstration just days earlier. This time, though, his countess was thrashing about as she screamed, attempting to avoid the knife her attacker wielded. Hart’s heart nearly stopped when it sliced Sarah’s flailing arm, but his legs continued pumping as fast as he could make them.

  When he was only a few yards away Sarah threw her head back, bashing her attacker in the face. Hart didn’t have to hear the squishing crunch to know she’d broken the man’s nose—the blood that poured out coupled with the attacker’s own scream said that clearly enough. He doubled over in pain, face in his hands, and Sarah ran.

  “I’m here, sweetheart,” Hart called, reaching for her as she came toward him. “I’m here, and you’re safe.”

  She flung her arms around him and held him tightly even as her body shook from fear and exertion. She didn’t speak, only buried her face against his neck.

  “There now, my love. I’ve got you.” He stroked her hair where it had tumbled from its pins and murmured the words over and over, desperately wishing he could do more to ease her panic.

  But her breathing eventually reached a less frenzied pace, and she raised her face. “Is he dead?”

  Hart hadn’t even noticed that her attacker had gone quiet, and peered around his wife to get a look. “I don’t think so. I can’t tell from here if he’s still breathing. He may have simply fainted from the pain of his injury. Do you want me to go and check?”

  “No.” She tightened her arms around him and dropped her forehead to his shoulder. “Not yet. Will you just hold me for a few more minutes?”

  “I’ll hold you forever if you want me to.”

  She let out a heavy sigh. “Good.”

  What seemed like hours later—but was probably only a minute or two—Richards ran up with the coachman on his heels.

  “My lord! Are you all right? We heard screaming...”

  “We are both unharmed, more or less. Would you be so kind as to secure our two guests and provide them with accommodations? I’ll want to have a word with them before we send them off into the care of the magistrate.”

  Richards nodded and headed toward Sarah’s assailant, while the coachman turned toward Hart’s. Both “guests” would be bound and detained in an unused outbuilding, as far away from Sarah as Hart could keep them and under strict guard.

  “Oh, ow,” Sarah moaned, raising her head once again and releasing Hart. “My arm hurts.”

  Blood was trickling down her forearm toward her shoulder, soaking into the sleeve of her gown. He pulled his handkerchief from his pocket and pressed it to her wound. “Didn’t even feel it when it happened, did you?”

  She shook her head, then put a hand to the back of her head. “Is that normal? My head hurts, too, now.”

  “Completely. Your body was overwhelmed by shock and fear. Now that you’re starting to calm down, you’ll begin to notice aches and pains from your fight.”

  “You sound like you’ve experienced this yourself.”

  “I have.” More times that he wanted her to know about.

  “Are you experiencing it now?”

  Hart did a mental check of his body parts. He might be a bit sore tomorrow from running—he couldn’t remember the last time he’d run at his absolute top speed. But everything else seemed to be in working order. “No, not this time.”

  “Good,” she said again.

  “Can you walk? We should get that wound cleaned and bandaged, and I’ll feel better when you’re tucked safely into bed.”

  She nodded slowly, replacing his hand with her own to keep pressure on her arm. “I can walk. And I think I’ll feel better once I’ve been safely tucked into bed, too.”

  He slid his arm around her waist and drew her to him as they headed toward the house. Her shaking had lessened, but Hart knew it would be a long time before she was truly relaxed again.

  “I tried to do what you taught me,” she said, slipping her uninjured arm around his waist. “But I couldn’t get my elbow in the right position, so I improvised.”

  He kissed her hair, catching a coppery whiff of blood from her attacker’s nose. “And an excellent improvisation it was. I only wish you hadn’t needed to do it.”

  “Me too. But it was a good thing you gave me that instruction.”

  A very good thing. As soon as he was done questioning their assailants, he was going to write up her next lesson in defense.

  Hart sat in his study later that night swirling a glass of Irish whiskey, staring at the wall.

  The two ruffians that had attacked them had little to say that Hart hadn’t already heard from Adam St. Peters—that proof of Sarah’s death was to be taken to Seven Dials, London in exchange for one hundred pounds. They’d heard the story from some friends visiting from London shortly after the new Countess of Hartland arrived, and had done a little investigating. When they discovered that Lady Hartland was the former Sarah Shipton, they sprung into action.

  A knock sounded on the closed door and Hart straightened in his chair. “Enter.”

  “You wanted to see me, my lord?” Richards halted just inside the door, his usual placid expression firmly in place.

  “I did. Did our guests arrive at their destination?”

  Richards had been tasked with overseeing the transfer of the attackers into the custody of the local magistrate. “They did, my lord. You’ll need to be interviewed, as will Lady Hartland.”

  Hart nodded. He’d expected that, and hoped it could be done quickly. “Good. We’re removing to Glanmire House. Lady Hartland and I will depart as soon as may be. You’ll follow with her ladyship’s maid and our baggage.”

  “As you wish, my lord.”

  “Be sure to pack the black brigandine that’s out in my workshop. And all the small plates you can find.” The brigandine needed repairing, and Hart had a special project in mind for the plates. He might as well work on both after they arrived in Ireland—there was no telling how long they’d be there.

  “I will make sure they are included.”

  “Good man. And the air scrubbing mask, too. Perhaps I’ll finally get that working.”

  “Certainly. Will there be anything else, my lord?”

  Hart leaned back in his chair. “Not tonight.”

  “Then I will bid you a good night.”

  Richards turned toward the door and had it halfway open wh
en Hart spoke again. “I almost lost her today, Richards. If those men had brought pistols instead of knives...”

  “‘Almost’ being the operative word, my lord. Lady Hartland is safe and sound upstairs, and Mrs. Nichols assures me the wound on her arm will heal quickly and cleanly.”

  “You’re right, of course. Good night, Richards.”

  The valet made his exit but Hart remained in his chair well into the night, swirling the liquid in his glass as he considered plans for their future. Some were immediately discarded, like his overwhelming urge to ride hell-for-leather to London and track down the bastard that had issued the threat on Sarah’s life. Some, like the equally overwhelming urge to never let Sarah out of his sight again, had a satisfying if twisted logic.

  Whatever happened, he knew he had to be more prepared than he’d been tonight.

  Chapter Ten

  Glanmire House was located a few miles outside Cork, Ireland, several hundred miles and a body of water away from London and the person who wanted Sarah dead. The fact that Ireland often still felt like a separate country despite having been absorbed into the United Kingdom some twelve years before made Hart feel even better about his choice of retreat. Many of the locals wanted nothing to do with England or its people and would pay little heed to stories coming from its capital. He hoped that included murder for hire schemes.

  Sarah seemed to be a country away from him at times, too. She practically—and sometimes literally—clung to him whenever he was in the main house, following him from room to room without ever seeming to settle in any of them. She also refused to leave the house for several days, even with an escort.

  Hart supposed her behavior made sense. He remembered the first time he went up against a criminal as the Armored Man, how he felt as if he were being watched all the time, how every loud bang had reminded him of the pistol that had almost killed him. And he’d gone into that fight voluntarily. Sarah had been snatched from the arms of safety and thrust into danger without her consent.

  But when they’d been in Ireland a little more than a week and Sarah was still acting as his shadow, he knew he had to do something to help her regain her balance. He missed the woman who demanded an explanation when he proposed marriage to her, who, when he became overprotective, promised not to put herself in harm’s way without consulting him first.

  And he suspected Sarah missed that version of herself, too.

  Hart kept the promise he’d made to himself to teach Sarah more about defending herself, hoping that giving her more tools to use in dangerous situations might strengthen her confidence and sense of safety. He began escorting her to one of the grassy terraces behind the house where they worked on targeting weak spots on the body, how to use her smaller size to her advantage, and how much force she needed to use to make each action effective. She wore long-sleeved gowns each time despite the lingering summer warmth, hiding what she called the “disfigurement” on her arm. But each day her interest grew, and with it came renewed energy.

  Then one day she came to him. Richards accompanied her, but she came of her own accord rather than having to be coaxed from the house. And he couldn’t hold back his grin when she arrived in an old gown of faded green with short sleeves.

  That’s my girl.

  When Richards had departed, Hart took Sarah’s hands. “What shall we practice today, my love? Do you still think you can flip me over your shoulder?”

  “Given enough leverage, I could flip you over the house,” she smiled.

  Hart’s heart stuttered in his chest. How wonderful to see her smiling again! “I have no doubt you could. Do you want to give it a try?”

  “I want to learn about weapons.”

  Hart felt his eyebrows shoot up to his hairline, but carefully reined them in. “Any weapon in particular?”

  Sarah shook her head, but gave his hands a little squeeze. “I was hoping you would know what might work best for me.”

  He pretended to look her over as if he were appraising a new acquisition. “For you, I’d say a small pistol or a knife. I’m assuming you’re looking for a defensive weapon rather than an offensive one.”

  “I have no desire to go after the people that hurt me, if that’s what you’re thinking. But I would like to be as prepared as possible in case someone else gets that close again.”

  Her voice was steady and her eyes were clear—she knew what she was asking. And he was happy to oblige her. “If Joanna Devlin hadn’t gone abroad last week, I’d have her teach you to shoot. She’s more competent with small arms than I am, and she could show you where to carry them on your person. But a dagger or stiletto... Come with me, and we’ll see what we can find for you.”

  He drew her arm through his as if they were taking a leisurely stroll about the grounds and led her one more terrace up from the house, where his workshop and small forge were located.

  “I have a nice selection of blades here,” he indicated a large wooden chest pushed up against one wall of the workshop as they entered. “But if you don’t find anything you like, I can make something to your specifications.”

  “A custom piece, just for me?”

  She sounded delighted by the prospect, and Hart decided then and there to create the perfect blade for her. “Just for you. What would you like?”

  “Let me see what my options are.”

  While Sarah rummaged through the chest, Hart busied himself making targets out of canvas leftover from the last brigandine he’d constructed there. She’d get a better feel for her weapon of choice if she could stab and slash at something other than the air.

  “Something like this, I think,” Sarah said, bringing over a small, stubby blade attached to a handle wrapped in wire. “It fits nicely in my hand and the wire makes for a firm grip. I just wish there was an easier way to carry it than in a scabbard like a tiny sword.”

  “There might be. Let me try a few things and see what I can come up with. In the meantime, let’s work on your skills with that one.”

  “All right. What do I do? The only knives I’ve ever used were at the dinner table.”

  “Just like before, your objective is to make your assailant release you. Understand?”

  She looked down at the weapon in her hand for a long moment, then raised her eyes to his and nodded. “Make him release me so I can ‘run like hell.’”

  “Exactly. With this type of blade you can thrust underhand or overhand, forward or backward.” He placed himself behind her, slipping one arm around her waist as he showed her how to hold and thrust the knife in each instance.

  The scent of flowery lemons clung to her as she set about following his instructions and Hart touched his nose to her hair, momentarily forgetting about the lesson.

  “Hart?”

  He kissed her crown and the tip of her ear. “May I ask you something?”

  “Certainly.”

  She turned toward him and he should have released her, but couldn’t bring himself to do so. “Are you well? I don’t mean physically—I can see that your arm is fine. I mean, are you sleeping well at night? Do you find yourself reliving your attack? Are you interested in things other than learning to defend yourself?”

  She set the knife on a table and slid her arms around him, meeting his gaze with her mouth pulled into a slight frown. “I am sometimes taken by a sudden flash in my mind of what happened, but that is happening less often now. And I’ve had Lucy sleeping in my chamber at night. Not that I think she’ll afford me any protection, mind you, but it’s calming to have another person there, to hear her breathing when I wake in the night.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  She laid a palm on his chest. “You have other things to worry about. I didn’t want to add to your list.”

  “You are the list. Everything else can wait.” Her brows rose in an unasked question and he tightened his arm around her, stroking her cheek with one hand. “Truly.”

  Her lips curved into a smile. “My mother said you would take excellent c
are of me. It seems she was right.”

  “You didn’t believe her?”

  “I possessed a healthy sense of skepticism. The only thing either of us knew about you was your reputation and your conduct in our shop.” Sarah reached up to smooth his unruly hair. “I don’t know if you’ve been hiding this side of you all these years or if it’s newly developed, but I’m glad you’ve let me see it.”

  “What side of me?”

  “The side that cares about people for who they are, not just what they can do for you.”

  He dropped his mouth to her ear and whispered, “I think that must be your influence, my lady.”

  “Sarah.”

  Hart straightened a little. “What?”

  “You always call me ‘my lady’ when the conversation becomes intimate. Just once, I want to hear you say my name instead.”

  She was right. He had deflected and diffused emotions by using her title rather than her name. He kissed her cheek, her temple, and whispered, “You have done me a world of good, Sarah Jane Elliot. I’m not the same man you married, I’m becoming a better one.”

  She rested her cheek against his and held him close for what seemed like forever and mere seconds all at once. When she drew back she was smiling softly. “I’ll take that knife with me back to the house and practice there for a while so you can focus and get some things done.”

  “You don’t have to do that...”

  “It’s best, though, isn’t it? Teaching me to defend myself isn’t the only thing you need to do today, is it?

  In addition to his promise to Sarah to keep her safe and find the coward who threatened her life, Hart did have estate business to tend to and a letter to send off to Wellington. His special project, too, was only partially complete.

  Though he would have happily ignored it all to spend the afternoon with his wife. “I do have a few more things to tend to.”

  “Then I’ll leave you to your work.” She leaned up and kissed him softly—too briefly—on the lips. “Will you be joining me for dinner this evening?”

  “I will.”

  “Then I’ll see you in a few hours.”