If You Give a Rake a Ruby

by Shana Galen

  “I’m fine.” He took a breath and willed it to be so. “But remember what I said. I want you safely away as quickly as possible. We can meet back here or at The Merry Widow.”

  “Of course.”

  “Lily.” He took her hand. “They’re men and they’re bored and they’re going to try to detain you. You have to—”

  She shook her head. “You worry about Fallon. I can handle Bayley’s men.”

  He didn’t doubt it. With a last check of his pistol and dagger, he started across the slick streets toward the dark alley behind the shop.

  ***

  “Oh, you’re going to pay for that,” Frankie said, rising to his feet. “You’re going to be very sorry.”

  She notched her chin up and stealthily shook the bindings off her wrist. She was free now, but her arms were still prickling with numbness and pain. “Then make me sorry,” she said. “I don’t think you can.”

  “She’s not afraid of you, boy,” her father said. “Maybe I should have kept her and gotten rid of you.”

  Frankie whipped around. “She’s the one who tried to kill you, old man. And I’m the one who’s going to get you those rubies. Don’t you forget it.”

  He’d turned his back to her, a fatal error she would have never made were she still a thief on the streets. Fallon wasn’t going to allow the opportunity to pass her by. She jumped to her feet, wobbled unsteadily, and flew at Frankie with all she had. He wasn’t expecting the attack, and her swift kick to his lower back had him falling to his knees. Her arms were still pulsing with pain, so she gave him another kick and wished she had worn her half boots instead of these useless slippers.

  Her father was screaming something at her now and coming toward her, and she knew she had no choice but to use her arms. She glanced about for something to grab and spotted a broken piece of crate. A nail scraped her hand, and she turned the wood just as her father came within striking distance. She swung out awkwardly but effectively, the wood slicing him across the cheek and drawing blood.

  Her arms burned and throbbed in protest, but she gritted her teeth and swung the piece of wood again—this time at Frankie. Frankie ducked, and she missed. Her aim was off because her arms were shaking. He lunged at her again and managed to knock her to the ground. The shard of wood went flying, and helplessly, she watched it land across the room with a clatter.

  “I’ve got you now,” Frankie said with a grin. He was on her in a moment, his body like a sack of flour. She could barely breathe much less move. His hands were all over her, his hot breath in her face. She tried pushing him away, but her arms were useless.

  Even if she’d had her full strength, she did not think she could have managed to push him off. She could still do some damage, though. She struck at him with her hands, tearing at his hair and then at his face. He stopped his assault long enough to grasp her wrists and hold her still.

  Fallon closed her eyes as he pushed her hands to the floor. His legs clamped around her waist, and she knew she was trapped now. He was going to rape her and then kill her. There was no escape this time. She couldn’t wriggle out of his grip like she had the bindings.

  She felt his moist, sweaty hand on her breast and clenched her jaw. She tried, one last time, to free her hands by moving them from side to side, but he held them tightly with his unoccupied hand. Still, her movement had revealed something of interest. Cautiously, she flexed her fingers and felt the warm metal of something lying on the dirty ground beside her. A blade? A knife? A shard that had long since come free of whatever it belonged to? Whatever it was, she had it within her reach. She fumbled with her fingers and managed to close her hand on it. It pricked her, and she sucked in a breath.

  Now, how to free her hands…

  Fighting Frankie would only make him clutch her that much tighter. But if she gave in—no, he wouldn’t believe that. If she were immobilized…

  “Frankie,” she said breathlessly, gasping for air. It wasn’t much of an act. She couldn’t catch her breath with all of his weight on her abdomen. “I can’t breathe. Please.”

  “You don’t need to breathe. Very shortly, you won’t be breathing at all.” She heard fabric rip and felt his fingers on the bare skin of her chest.

  “Frankie, I’m going to faint.” She’d never fainted in her life. “I can’t…” As hard as it was to make herself go limp, especially with him pawing her, she let all the tension and strength flow out of her arms and legs until she was completely at his mercy. He didn’t seem to notice. She could tell by his movements, he was busy getting himself ready to enter her. Everything in her wanted to fight back, to scream, to struggle, to buck and claw and tear.

  She fought the urge and made herself lifeless.

  His hand thrust between her legs, and she felt bile rise in her throat. He wasn’t going to release her. He was going to rape her, and she was going to sit here and allow it to happen.

  Don’t move. This is your last chance…

  He kicked her legs open and raised her skirts.

  Please, please, please.

  And then she felt it. His hand loosened on her wrists, tightened again, and then when she didn’t fight, loosened. She would have one chance. One.

  She held her breath and swung her arms up in an arc.

  ***

  Warrick stepped inside the shop. The lock had been easy to pick, which told him Bayley and his men weren’t worried about intruders. They felt safe.

  He could hear voices toward the front of the shop, a high one that must be Lily’s and a lower one that was one of Bayley’s men. Warrick doubted Bayley only had one guard, so he’d have to watch for the second one. He slunk along the wall, keeping to the shadows, and caught a glimpse of Lily standing in the doorway. She was talking earnestly, and he could have kissed her. If she could just keep the guard occupied for ten more seconds, Warrick would be out of sight.

  He reached a staircase, put his hand on the banister, and was halfway to the top when he heard a distant crash. It wasn’t coming from upstairs. The sound of voices from the doorway below ceased, and Warrick knew the guard was listening.

  It must be Fallon. Warrick’s heart soared. If she was fighting, she was alive. But she wasn’t upstairs. Where, then?

  There must be a cellar. He flew back down the stairs and searched for a cellar door. He found it under the stairs and pulled it open. The screams grew louder, and heedless of the danger, he ran down the stairs with his pistol in his hand. The cellar was dark, and it took a moment for his eyes to adjust. When they did, he blinked, uncertain whether or not to believe what he was seeing. Fallon stood over the body of a man who lay face down on the floor, writhing in pain. She held something in her hand, and from the dark smears on her fingers, Warrick supposed whatever it was was covered in blood.

  “Warrick.” Her voice was full of relief, and he realized she must have feared he was another of Bayley’s men coming for her. He took a quick inventory of her, noting her torn bodice and the disarray of her hair. If anyone had dared touch her, he would gut him and serve the man his own entrails. His gaze knifed to the man on the floor.

  “Are you hurt?” he asked, his voice deadly calm.

  “No—” Something in the shadows caught her attention, and she turned her head. Too late, Warrick saw who claimed her attention. Joseph Bayley lunged from the darkness and grabbed Fallon around the waist. His arm locked hers in place, immobilizing the hand holding the weapon.

  “Fitzhugh,” Bayley croaked. He had a streak of blood running down his cheek and a nasty gash above it. Warrick had no doubt who was responsible.

  Fallon struggled against her father’s hold then stilled. In the gloom, Warrick sensed the knife more than saw it.

  “I knew she’d bring you to me one way or another.”

  A deadly calm settled over Warrick. “You have me now. You can let her go.” He dropped his pistol and kicked
it out of reach. In the back of his mind, he could hear the screams of those dying men on the battlefield, and he willed them away. They faded but would not cease.

  “I don’t think so,” Bayley said. “She and I have matters to settle, but I will make you a bargain. I won’t kill her until after I’ve killed you.”

  “Get out of h—!” Fallon hissed before her father jerked her and cut off her words. Warrick’s gaze met hers, and he saw the anger and fire in her eyes. He saw the pain too. Bayley was hurting her. He glanced at her neck and saw the rivulet of blood making a slow, crimson path to her collarbone.

  Her mouth moved. I’m not worth it.

  Warrick shook his head. There, she was wrong. “This and more,” he said quietly.

  “What?” Bayley barked.

  “Let her go.” Warrick held out his hands. “I’m unarmed. You can have me, collect your prize, live out the rest of your life in”—he glanced about in disgust—“comfort.”

  “Do you think me that much a fool, boy? Pull the knife out of your boot. Do it slowly now, and toss it this way.”

  Warrick gritted his teeth and unsheathed the knife. With a flick of his wrist, he sent it flying into the gloom behind Bayley.

  “Now, we’re going to make a trade, nice and easy like,” Bayley said. “You take her place.”

  “No!” Fallon cried before Bayley shook her, silencing her.

  Warrick didn’t like it, but it would give Fallon a chance at escape. That was, if she would run. Lily was probably still out there, hiding, watching the shop. She would catch Fallon, take her home, get her to safety. Fallon would be safe.

  And he would be dead.

  “All right,” Warrick agreed. He looked at Fallon, eyes hard. “When I take your place, you run. Get out of this shop.”

  “No!”

  “Do it, Fallon! Don’t make me die for nothing.”

  “Oh, isn’t that romantic,” Bayley cooed. “I feel all warm inside.”

  “Stubble it, Bayley, and let’s get this done.” Warrick’s gaze never left Fallon’s eyes. He gave her a hard glare, and she glared right back. He wasn’t certain if that meant she’d follow his orders or countermand them. In any case, he was out of time.

  Bayley shifted Fallon so that the knife was still at her neck but she was off to one side. Warrick indicated the empty space before him with a flick of his eyes. “As soon as I have you, I let her go.”

  “Very well.” Warrick swallowed and took a step forward. He’d always thought, at the end, that everything in the world around him would slow. He’d remember sweet moments from his childhood—a lullaby his mother sang him or a horse ride on his father’s back. The memory of the first girl he’d kissed would flash before him or the first time he and his friends at Oxford had gotten drunk. He was certain he’d always remember the splendor of the palace when he’d been first called before the King and Queen or the anguish he’d felt when he’d had to take a life for the first time, even though it was the life of an enemy.

  But he thought of none of these things. His mind was filled with images of Fallon—her smile, her frown, the feel of her hand in his, the sound of her voice. For a moment he longed for what might have been. They could have had a life together. He could have been happy with her. He could have made her happy.

  But he was a fool for ever thinking it so. He’d always known marriage and family weren’t within his reach. His gaze was still locked on Fallon’s face as he took his last step into Bayley’s reach. The screams that haunted Warrick for years rose in pitch and crescendoed as he took his last breath and stepped forward.

  ***

  Frankie was screaming. The sound startled Fallon, and she had to control the impulse to jump lest she cut her own neck on her father’s knife. She felt the tremor run through her father and knew this was it. This was her only chance. Frankie came to his knees, and Fallon squirmed away from her father.

  “Now!” she yelled at Warrick.

  Her father reached for her, but it was too late. The moment’s distraction had cost him, and Warrick was right there to take advantage. She paused a second to admire Warrick’s quick reflexes. His hand shot out, grabbed her father’s wrist, and shoved him back until he was pinned to the wall. She heard some sort of scuffle from that corner, but her attention was still on Frankie. His hand had been on his cheek and now it came away, covered in sticky blood.

  “What the devil have you done to me, you bitch?” he screamed, rising unsteadily to his feet.

  “You’re not so pretty anymore, Frankie,” she said. “In fact, I should think the ladies will be more eager to run from you than to you in the future.”

  “I’m going to kill you.” He lunged for her, but she ducked and sidestepped behind him. He rounded on her, quickly, and she was forced back. In her peripheral vision, she saw Warrick and her father struggling. She couldn’t see who was winning, but she prayed it was Warrick. She took another step back as Frankie advanced, and her foot kicked something solid. She glanced down, saw it was Warrick’s pistol, and dove for it.

  Unfortunately, Frankie saw it too. He reached for it at the same time she did, and their hands locked on the weapon together. “Let go!” she ordered, but she knew it was futile. His strength would win this one. They both tugged at the weapon, and when he yanked, she let go. Frankie stumbled back, and she turned to Warrick. She could see his back and the slumped form of her father in front of him.

  Good. He’d won that battle. She’d bought him that time, and she could only pray it was enough. At least now he had a chance. She looked at Frankie, and took a deep breath as he raised the pistol.

  “No!” Warrick rammed into Frankie, sending the ball wide and clear of her. He knocked Frankie down and the two men melded into a tangle of arms and legs. Fallon ran first to her father, ensuring he wouldn’t interfere in the fight. But his eyes were wide and unseeing. Her gaze traveled from his waxy face to the knife protruding from his belly.

  She could feel no joy in his death, only relief. “Good-bye, Da,” she whispered and closed his eyes.

  She rose slowly and turned back to the men who were now rolling about on the floor. She moved closer, trying to see how she might aid Warrick. Frankie rolled over, and Warrick looked up at her. Blood and dirt were smeared across his face. “Get out of here!” he ordered.

  “Not without you.”

  The men rolled again, and Warrick was on top. He punched Frankie hard enough to cause real damage, but Frankie didn’t flag. Instead, he reached for Warrick’s neck, took hold, and shook Warrick. Fallon swallowed in sympathy and glanced around for some sort of aid. She spotted the pistol lying in a corner and rushed to pick it up. “Frankie, let him go,” she said, pointing the pistol at the men.

  Good thing she had no intention of firing it. She’d never get a clear shot.

  “I’ll kill him and then you,” Frankie hissed.

  “Shoot him!” Warrick told her. Fallon didn’t have the heart to tell him she didn’t know how to prime the thing much less fire it. The men rolled again, and Warrick was on the bottom with Frankie’s hands about his throat. Even in the murky light, Fallon could see Warrick’s face was turning an unhealthy shade of purple.

  Frankie lifted Warrick’s head and slammed it into the floor. Fallon winced.

  “Shoot him!” Warrick croaked.

  She couldn’t shoot him, but she could do something. While Frankie choked the life from Warrick, she rushed up behind him, raised the pistol, and brought it down hard on the back of his head. He turned to her, angrily, and she hit him across the face. Her hand exploded with dull pain, and she stepped back to cradle it. She was glad she had. Warrick threw Frankie off and struck the other man hard in the nose.

  Fallon heard the crack and blinked. And then Warrick’s arms were around her, and she was hauled against his chest. He smelled of dirt and sweat and blood, and she had never been so glad to
bury her head into a man’s chest before.

  “Why didn’t you run?” he asked her, holding her so tightly she didn’t think she could have answered even if she’d wanted to. He pulled back. “We have to get out of here. Can you run?”

  She nodded. She was bone-weary, but seeing him gave her renewed strength. She felt at that moment she could do anything with him beside her. Hand-in-hand, they started up the stairs and, breathless, pushed the cellar door open together.

  A giant stood before them, arms crossed, frown permanently etched into his features. Warrick sighed, and Fallon almost turned back. The man reminded her of Titus, her butler. But Titus would never hurt her. This man was obviously of a different mind-set.

  “Now wait a moment, chap,” Warrick said, holding his arms up as the man stepped forward. “There’s nothing to fight for any longer. Your employer is dead.”

  The giant was still coming, so Fallon added, “It’s true. He has a knife sticking out of his belly. Go see for yourself.”

  The giant reached for Warrick, grabbed him by the shirt, and shook him. Fallon screamed and stepped aside to avoid being slammed by one of Warrick’s doll-like limbs. She grabbed one of the giant’s arms and tried to pry it down so he would release Warrick, but she was lifted off her feet. The giant shook her off and slammed Warrick to the ground. Warrick landed in a heap in the corner. Fallon blinked and stepped out of the giant’s reach, but he wasn’t looking at her.

  He lumbered forward, intent upon Warrick. When he bent to grab him again, Fallon did the only thing she could think of. She jumped on the giant’s back. It was like riding a small, untamed horse. The giant whirled around, reaching for her, trying to grab her. She held on, wrapping her arms around his neck and squeezing. Her efforts left her breathless but seemed to have no effect on her father’s man. “Warrick!” she screamed when the giant swiped her with one great paw.

  “Coming,” he mumbled. She could see him attempting to rise, using the wall to pull himself slowly to his feet. And then something tapped her shoulder and when she looked that way, something hard and heavy was thrust before her.