Two men hauled Daniel off Jacobi, and Jacobi sat upright, catching his breath and wiping blood from his face.
Daniel was ready to fight. He wrested himself free, then dove in, yelling. He blocked a blow, and punched, his fist connecting with a gut. An upward cut to another, then a third man grabbed him from behind. Daniel elbowed the man as he spun loose then threw a punch upward to the man’s jaw. Daniel still had the knife clenched in his left hand, ready.
This wasn’t stage fighting, where each opponent waited politely for the hero to be free to engage him. The men came at Daniel at once, four on him. Daniel fought off four pairs of fists, feet, knees, elbows, he making practiced jabs with his knife before a chance bang to his wrist made him drop it.
No matter. He’d finished making speeches to Jacobi, but if Daniel had gone on, he could have explained that he’d learned all kinds of fighting in addition to what Bellamy had taught him. Daniel had learned much in the backstreets of Paris and Rome, as well as in Greece and the dark cold of Russia. He’d learned fast knife fighting in Morocco and Alexandria. The London man from the Japans, who’d given him the tattoo, had shown him some even more interesting hand-to-hand fighting—Daniel had never been able to best him.
He enjoyed putting all the fighting techniques to use. He might take a beating tonight, but Daniel would hold his own all the way. Violet would be safe, and Daniel would get her free of Jacobi no matter what he had to do.
After that? Well . . . Daniel had plenty to concentrate on here first.
The men Jacobi had hired were quite skilled. The odds were four to one, since the French solicitor wasn’t a fighter at all. The poor man had already surrendered, sitting on a wooden chair and shielding his head with his arms. That left Daniel and Sutton’s solicitor to fight against eight.
And Jacobi? He’d disappeared.
No, there he was, the bastard, slipping away into the hall. Going for reinforcements? Or just running for safety?
Daniel tried to fight his way toward him. But as good a fighter as Daniel was, trying to beat his way out from under four trained men wasn’t easy.
As Daniel took more blows—to his head, his gut, his chest—he swore he heard voices he recognized. Not the pugilists Mr. Sutton had lent him, who were, with Simon, protecting Violet on her way back to the hotel, but the voices of men he’d known all his life.
Couldn’t be. His head must have gotten pounded too hard.
Daniel kept punching, kicking, elbowing, grabbing, tripping. He had one of the men down, groaning, evening the odds a bit.
Over the shouts and sounds of furniture crashing he thought he heard Mac Mackenzie say, “This looks like a good game. Save any for me, Danny?”
Daniel couldn’t afford to take his attention from the three men he was fighting, but the room seemed to suddenly fill up with Scotsmen. Loud voices, grating laughter, kilts.
Cameron Mackenzie, towering over everyone, grabbed one man fighting Daniel by the neck and punched his face. The man grunted then crumpled.
Daniel shook his head, his ears ringing. What the devil?
With Mac was Bellamy. The big man with the scarred faced never smiled much, but he was smiling now as he dragged a man off the other fighter and started hitting him. A third Mackenzie, Ian, stood in the doorway, surveying the fight. Probably calculating the odds.
“Ian!” Daniel yelled. Blood came out of his mouth. “Get Jacobi. Hold him.”
Ian took a step back out of the room and vanished. Mac was laughing, swinging his fists. “And Hart says Paris isn’t fun anymore.”
“What the bloody hell are you doing here?” Daniel shouted.
“Helping you,” Cameron answered. “Don’t be ungrateful, Son.”
No more conversation. Fighting needed to be done. Even now that Daniel’s insane father and uncle and Bellamy were here to even things up, there was still a long way to go.
Daniel looked longingly at the door through which Jacobi had run. Had Ian caught him?
“Go!” Mac yelled at him, pushing Daniel to the door. “Cam and Bellamy and I have got this.” Mac laughed as he turned around and fended off a blow. “Like old times, Cam.”
Daniel made for the table where he’d left the stack of legal papers and found them gone. Damn Jacobi.
Daniel pushed his way out of the room and found the hall empty. So was the staircase and the room next door. He looked up the staircase and down. Which way?
He chose down. Jacobi might think he could still catch Violet outside. He wouldn’t, though. Simon had his instructions.
When Daniel reached the ground floor, Ian appeared at the end of the hall. Without a word, Ian seized Daniel by the shoulder and steered him through a door and down another flight of stairs. Silently they went through another door together at the bottom and into a kitchen.
A fireplace was stoked high at the end of the room, sending out soothing warmth. Jacobi crouched on the hearth, thrusting papers into the fire.
Idiot. Daniel could just have another copy drawn up. But that would take time, and Jacobi could find somewhere else to hide or try to send more men to put Daniel out of the way.
Daniel gave Ian a nod. Both men charged Jacobi at the same time. Jacobi saw them and got to his feet in alarm, scattering papers. Then he picked up a pistol that had been hidden under the papers, aimed it, and fired it at Daniel.
Daniel felt the bullet go into his chest. He ran two more steps, then his legs didn’t work, and he fell heavily to his knees. Ian was shouting, running at Jacobi, who shot again. Ian went down—hit or taking cover, Daniel couldn’t tell.
Daniel fell forward, onto his face, his cheek meeting the flagstone floor, and everything stopped.
Chapter 31
Violet heard the gunshot and was out of the carriage before Simon could stop her.
Violet had refused all Simon’s pleas that she return to the hotel to wait for Daniel, because one thing Violet had learned about Jacobi was that he was a snake. Whatever Daniel thought Jacobi had planned, Jacobi would have put ten more contingencies into place. So she’d stayed, no matter how hard Simon had talked.
She’d been astonished to see three Mackenzie men and Bellamy arrive in another coach and go into the house, Mac pausing to flash her his big grin and tell her they’d come for the rescue. Simon had stopped Violet rushing in behind them, but when she heard the shot, she couldn’t remain inside the coach.
Violet landed hard on the ground in her soft slippers, catching up the small train of the elegant dress. Simon tried to herd her back into the carriage, but Violet would have none of it. She ran for the front door.
When the second shot came, her heart lurched. The sound had come from, of all places, below her. Violet realized she stood near stairs that led down to the scullery, and the shot had come from behind the small windows there.
“Simon, this way!” she called, even as she ran down the flight of dirty, coal-stained stairs to the bottom.
Simon hurried down and pushed past her, reaching the kitchen door first. He turned the handle, and the door opened readily, not locked or bolted. Simon was surprised to find it unlocked, but Violet wasn’t. Jacobi always left himself many easy exits from a building.
Violet ran through a squalid scullery into a kitchen, and stopped.
Daniel lay facedown on the flagstone floor, a pool of blood spreading from under him. Ian Mackenzie had a hand over his own arm, crimson under his fingers. Rage lit Ian’s eyes, but he turned from Jacobi when he saw Violet in the doorway.
“No!” Ian shouted at her. “Go!”
Violet couldn’t move. Daniel lay motionless, his head turned on the floor, bruises and blood nearly black on his paper-white face. He wasn’t breathing. A dark, damp mark spotted the back of his jacket, the sign of a bullet. Jacobi stood by the fireplace, his face starkly pale, a mixture of horror and triumph in his eyes. He held a pistol.
Everything froze in place. Ian had shoved himself between Daniel and Jacobi’s gun, and Simon was in front of Violet
, protecting her.
Violet scarcely noticed. All she saw was Daniel on the floor, and nothing else in the world mattered.
Images poured through her head. Daniel sticking out his hand in greeting in the overcrowded dining room in London, smiling because he knew Violet was a fraud. Daniel had teased her from the beginning, pushing the planchette on the talking board so it spelled a rude word, finding the rigging that worked her effects, knocking out ghostly messages in Morse code—You are lovely, do you know, lass? He’d seen right through Violet, and he’d laughed at her.
She saw again Daniel daring her to take smoke from his cigarette, using the excuse to kiss her. Then Daniel standing in front of the stage in Marseille, laughing again, when she’d believed him dead. Indestructible.
He’d given Violet a taste of true freedom when he’d taken her up in the balloon, letting her leave the littleness of her day-to-day life behind. And he’d kissed her.
Slow goodness. Daniel had freed Violet from her prison little by little, teaching her to trust, showing her how to let go of pain and seek pleasure. And teaching her that letting go was not wrong.
Oh, and Violet. I love you too.
He’d said it offhandedly, but what Violet had seen in his eyes had been real. He’d meant it.
Violet had finally found a man who loved her for herself, for what she was. Something precious and incredibly rare, and Jacobi was taking it all away from her.
Violet had been alone before, but Daniel had changed everything. Before meeting him, she had been resigned to walk along her chosen road, alone, that road bleak and unending.
But now Violet knew differently. She’d tasted the magic.
Without Daniel, she would be rudderless. Empty. Alone in the dark.
She’d be the sixteen-year-old girl at the moment her innocence had shattered. From that instant, until she’d met Daniel, Violet had been existing. Walking, eating, sleeping, but not alive.
Daniel Mackenzie had smiled at her, and her world had changed. Violet had dragged in her first breath of life.
And now Jacobi had taken happiness and love away from her—again.
Violet heard the scream well in her throat, the desperate No! Then she was running forward, breaking away from Simon.
Jacobi’s pistol discharged again, and Violet felt a sharp pain in her thigh. But she couldn’t stop. She reached Jacobi and clawed at his face.
Jacobi lifted his arms to defend himself. Violet’s hand landed on the pistol. The steel was hot, the stench of gunpowder harsh. She closed her hand around the gun, black and heavy, and tried to rip it away from Jacobi.
Jacobi struggled with her for it. The barrel now pointed at Violet’s heart, which was already so shattered she’d never feel a bullet go into it.
Ian grabbed Jacobi, and Simon got his hands around Violet. The pistol turned, Violet still struggling to take it away from Jacobi.
When it went off again, the sound deafened her. Violet stumbled back from Jacobi in wild fear, but she now held the pistol.
Jacobi looked at Violet in vast confusion, blood bubbling on his lips. He said, “My flower . . .” Then life left his eyes, and he fell forward onto her, sliding down the front of Violet’s beautiful dress.
Violet dropped the pistol. Simon grabbed it from the floor, but Violet hardly noticed. She took staggering steps to Daniel’s lifeless body and fell to her knees beside him.
She gathered Daniel up and rocked him, his blood warm against her. No tears could pour from her eyes—they were dry and aching. Her entire body hurt, and nothing would ever be right again.
“Daniel, I love you,” she said. The words tumbled out, faster and faster. “Don’t leave me. Please, Daniel. You are my life. I love you. Don’t leave me.”
Daniel’s blood was all over her, mixing with her own from where she’d been shot and Jacobi’s on the silk bodice. Violet’s wound brought pain, but nothing like what burned through her heart.
She realized the rest of Daniel’s family had come down to the kitchen—Mac, Daniel’s father, Bellamy. Cameron dropped to the floor beside Violet, his eyes holding stark grief.
“Danny.” Cameron’s gravelly voice broke, the tears Violet wanted to cry wetting his face. He stroked Daniel’s hair. “My boy.”
Ian was there. He leaned past Cameron and tried to lift Daniel. Violet held Daniel fast, not wanting to break any contact with him.
Cameron snarled. “Ian, leave him.”
“Simon knows,” Ian said. With amazing strength, he took Daniel straight out of Violet’s arms, and laid his limp body on the floor.
Violet’s tears came then. She curled up into a ball and pressed her hands over her face. Cameron’s arm came around her, and he wept with her without shame. Whatever Daniel might think about his father, Cameron loved Daniel with a powerful love, one that matched Violet’s own.
Simon was bending over Daniel, hitting him. Simon’s fingers stained red, and he was slamming his closed fist to Daniel’s chest, over and over.
Violet cried out. Simon kept pounding. Daniel grunted, his eyes flew open, and he gasped, then coughed.
“Damnation,” he said, voice so weak it was barely audible. “The papers. Someone get the bloody papers.”
“Don’t matter,” Simon answered, breathless and still on his knees. “I think your lady is a widow now.”
Violet staggered up. Cameron was on his feet with her, his arms around her. They went down again beside Daniel, Simon moving for them. Daniel’s face was ashen, his breathing labored. He was alive, but barely.
Daniel looked up at Violet in dismay. “What are you still doing here?” His voice rasped. “Simon, you’re sacked.”
“Shut up, Daniel,” Violet said. “I love you. Do you hear me? I love you. I’m going to keep telling you that, every day if I have to, all right?”
Daniel could barely move his mouth to smile, but the look in his eyes was enough. “Fine by me.”
Cameron stroked Daniel’s hair, his tears still falling. “Be quiet, Danny,” he said. “Just rest now.”
“I still want to know what you’re doing here.” Daniel could barely speak as he glared at his father, but he kept talking. Bloody stubborn man. “But later.” He closed his fingers weakly around Violet’s. “Stay with me, Vi, all right? Now and always.”
Violet’s tears came again, but they were cleansing. She nodded. “Now and always.”
Daniel squeezed her hand, then his fingers loosened, too weak. “Good. Love you, sweet Violet. Damn, but I love you.”
Violet lifted his hand to her chest, holding it tight. “Stop talking now. You need a surgeon.”
“Mmm.” Daniel’s eyes slid closed, but his fingers remained firmly around hers. “That’s my Violet. Ever practical.”
Daniel woke again, flat on his back in his Parisian hotel room, hurting all over. But it wasn’t so bad, because Violet lay next to him, clad in a thick dressing gown, her hair in a long braid. She was asleep, her lashes dark against her face, her breathing soft and even.
Images and sensations swirled back at him—Jacobi, the fight, pain, Violet’s voice as she told him she loved him.
She was beautiful when she slept. And when she was awake. When she was naked and when she was clothed—but especially when she was naked.
Daniel lifted his hand—after a moment of trying to remember how that worked—and smoothed Violet’s hair.
Her eyes flew open, and she half sat up. “Daniel.”
“That’s me.” Daniel put his hand to his head. “I think. What the devil happened? Did we get the papers back from Jacobi? The solicitors keep copies, but I need him to sign . . .”
Violet’s fingers on his lips stopped his flow of words. “Jacobi is dead. Buried already. The papers are no longer necessary.”
Daniel stared. “Dead and buried? Dear God, how long have I been asleep?”
He vaguely remembered Simon’s voice saying that Violet was now a widow, but everything after the gunshot was a bit fuzzy. Except Violet’s
repeated declaration that she loved him. That he remembered.
“The surgeon sewed you up a week ago. Your father found the best in Paris and dragged him to you. The best nurses too.”
“Kind of him.” Daniel remembered his surprise at hearing Mac’s voice, seeing Ian and Cameron in Jacobi’s house. “What is Dad even doing here? And my uncles? Was there a spontaneous gathering of Scotsmen in Paris?”
Violet’s sudden smile was like June sunshine. “My mother had one of her visions.”
Daniel rubbed his forehead, which was aching. “You mean she saw me fighting eight men at a small house in Montmartre?”
“She saw both of us fighting for our lives. She said it was a confusion of fighting, gunshots, blood, you falling dead. She grew so alarmed she demanded to be taken to Paris to make sure we were all right. Your aunt Eleanor decided it was best she come.”
Daniel hurt too much to laugh. “You win, love. I’ll never cast doubt on your mother’s gift again. And I suppose my entire family, who can’t keep themselves to themselves, had to traipse after her?”
“Ainsley offered to come with my mother alone, but your father wouldn’t let her go without him. Then Ian insisted on coming too, and Beth refused to remain behind if he did. Mac and Isabella grew worried enough to abandon their soirees and come over with them. Everyone is here, except the duke and duchess, who stayed behind to watch over the children.”
“All right, so they came to Paris.” Daniel tried to sort his thoughts. “But how did they know exactly where to find us, if your mother’s vision wasn’t precise?”
“One of the pugilists you borrowed from Mr. Sutton returned to the hotel to make sure Jacobi hadn’t sent men to waylay us here. He found your family waiting in your rooms and told them where you’d gone. The ladies stayed put—after a great deal of argument, I hear—and your uncles and father came.” Violet paused. “Your father has been very upset. He cares a great deal about you.”
“Dad?” Daniel nodded quietly. “Aye, I know. He’s awkward about showing it, but I know.” Cameron had always been gruff, and slow to show affection, but Daniel had always known love was there, even in the frustrating times.
The Wicked Deeds of Daniel Mackenzie hp-6 Page 35
