For the Sake of a Scottish Rake

by Anna Bradley

  “What the devil is she doing here?”

  “Who?” Vale turned to follow Ciaran’s gaze. “I don’t see…” His voice trailed off, and he lapsed into a stunned silence. Ciaran glanced at Vale to find his friend shaking his head as if to clear it. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he muttered, staring at the redhead.

  “But…” Try as he might, Ciaran couldn’t force his brain to supply a reasonable explanation as to why she should be at Brighton Racetrack, alone, once again risking her reputation and her safety. This was a bloody prizefight, for God’s sake, not a tea party.

  “I don’t—what the devil is she doing here?” He sounded like a fool, repeating himself like this, but damn it, what the devil was she doing here? No other question made sense.

  “She’s, ah…it looks as if she’s…well, confound it, Ramsey, that’s a foolish question. The answer is as plain as day. She’s watching the bout.”

  An incredulous laugh escaped Ciaran’s lips. “Damned if she isn’t.”

  This ladylike little chit, with her delicate face and cloud of red curls, was as riveted by the grisly spectacle unfolding in the center ring as any one of the dirty, screeching villains in their midst.

  The crowd let out a roar just then, and Ciaran turned back to the ring in time to see the Scot slam a fist into Belcher’s face. There was another crack of breaking bone. Blood burst in a fountain from Belcher’s broken nose and splattered onto his bare chest.

  Ciaran swung his gaze back toward the redhead, his muscles tensed to run for her in case she swooned. She pressed a hand to her mouth, but otherwise she didn’t flinch. Not a wrinkle marred that smooth brow, not even when the Scot seized his advantage with a half-dozen lightning-quick blows to Belcher’s torso, which landed with the sickening thud of fists against flesh.

  “She’s steady, that one,” Vale said, impressed. “Strong stomach.”

  The crowd wasn’t as steady as she was, however. They let out an infuriated roar as Belcher crumpled like a rag doll tossed aside by a careless child.

  “Here comes your brawl.” Vale pointed at a throng of angry men rushing toward the ring, fists flying.

  Ciaran’s gaze snapped back to the redheaded lady, who was still clinging to her perch, her two dainty feet balanced on the hub of the carriage wheel. “Damn it. Devil of a time to play hero, but we can’t just leave her there.”

  The thickest part of the crowd was a good distance from her. She still had time to get away, but this sort of violence would spread from one man to the next like a contagion. “What’s wrong with the chit? Why doesn’t she go?”

  “She doesn’t see it, Ramsey. It’s doubtful she’s ever been in a crowd like this before.”

  “She shouldn’t bloody be here now—”

  “Thief! Thief!” Ciaran jerked his head away from her just in time to see one man grab another by the throat and throw him to the ground. “Bloody thief! Check yer pockets, lads!”

  The man’s outraged howl split the air, and a small knot of men broke free from the squirming mass of bodies near the ring and leapt on top of the two men grappling on the ground. Within seconds they were engaged in a vicious exchange of blows, shoving and pushing each other closer to the lady’s carriage.

  Ciaran’s breath froze in his lungs as the horses lurched in their traces to escape the mob, and the carriage pitched beneath her. She made a quick grab for the edge of the wheel and managed to steady herself, but she might not be so lucky next time. The frenzied brawlers continued to push toward her, their shouts and curses growing louder with every second. It was only a matter of time before the horses took fright and bolted again.

  “Jesus, Ramsey.” Vale’s face had gone white. “She’ll be dragged down into the swarm and trampled under their boot heels before she even has a chance to scream.”

  “Go. Hurry, Vale. Fetch my carriage. I’ll get her, then I’ll find you.”

  Ciaran didn’t wait for an answer. Vale’s shout faded behind him as he plunged into the brawl. A man smashed his fist into Ciaran’s mouth, then seized his coat and tried to throw him to the ground. No doubt he was intent on snatching Ciaran’s blunt, but Ciaran slammed an elbow hard into the scoundrel’s stomach, and the man dropped to the ground with a grunt.

  Ciaran didn’t pause, but shoved his way through the pack of villains. His mouth was rusty with the taste of blood, his gaze fixed on the place where he’d last seen a headful of red curls, and a dark gray cloak lined with green satin.

  Chapter Four

  A startled cry left Lucy’s lips as the carriage jolted beneath her.

  She gasped as one of her feet slipped and she tottered on her perch, but she managed to grab the wheel in time to keep herself from tumbling to the ground.

  Oh, dear. It looked as if her adventure was coming to an abrupt end.

  The crowd had gotten closer and become more frenzied. The noise had startled Lord-whoever-he-might-be’s horses, and the shouts and curses were growing more deafening by the moment.

  If the horses should take fright again, and she should fall…

  Dash it. She’d have to go at once. It was her first prizefight, likely her last, and she’d be obliged to abandon it before it concluded. It was vexing, but there was no help for it. If she were to be injured in a fall from Lord something-or-other’s carriage at a bare-knuckle prizefight, all the laudanum in England wouldn’t be enough to sooth her Aunt Jarvis’s frazzled nerves.

  She reached behind her, bracing her palms against the top of the carriage wheel. She twisted her body around toward the door and stuck her head through the open window. Ah, good. Just as she’d thought. There wasn’t a scoundrel in sight on the far side of the line of carriages. All she had to do was squirm close enough to reach the door handle, open the door and scramble out the other side of the carriage. Just a bit closer, and she’d have it—

  “What the devil do you think you’re doing? Can’t you see you aren’t safe here? Come down from there at once!”

  Lucy whirled around with a gasp as two enormous hands closed around her waist. Dear God, a villain with blood dripping from his mouth was trying to tear her down from the carriage! “Unhand me at once, sir!” Lucy kicked out at him, and her foot connected with his chest.

  He grunted and staggered back a little from the blow. “Another kick, lass? That’s twice in one week. I’m beginning to think you don’t like me.”

  Another kick? What did he mean, another—

  Oh, no. Lucy’s eyes went wide. He wasn’t just any bleeding villain. He was her bleeding villain. That is, not hers exactly, but he was the same very large, very Scottish, excessively heroic gentleman from the beach!

  “Can’t say I enjoy being kicked in the chest, but I’d rather that than my nose again. It still hasn’t recovered from the last time you kicked me.”

  Lucy cringed as she recalled the heel of her boot slamming into his chest. Whatever else might happen, she had to make a vow to stop assaulting the gentlemen of Brighton.

  Not that the kick had done the least bit of good. The blasted man was still holding onto her. “Sir! If you’d be so kind as to let me go, I could—”

  “Don’t be a fool, lass.” He glanced over his shoulder at the frenzied crowd, then turned back to her. “Come down now, and I’ll get you safely away before it’s too late.”

  “I’m perfectly able to get myself safely away!” Lucy stuck her head through the carriage window again. The opposite side of the carriage was still clear. There wasn’t a thing to be seen but wide, open fields, and just beyond it, the empty road leading back toward the villa. It was by far the safest escape route for them both—far safer than him having to drag her through that crowd of wailing villains.If her misguided hero would only release her she could scramble through the near door and out the other side. She’d disappear down the road, and it would be as if she’d never been here at all.

  She t
urned to her captor and spoke in the most reasonable voice she could muster. “I assure you, sir, you needn’t worry about me. I don’t need rescuing. If you’d be so good as to release me, you can be on your way.”

  He didn’t reply, but looked up at her without speaking, his dark eyebrows arched over those blue, blue eyes. A long moment of silence passed as they stared at each other, neither of them moving. Then, without warning, his brows lowered, and his lips turned down in a stubborn frown.

  The hair on Lucy’s neck rose in alarm. “Don’t!”

  She thrust out a foot to stop him, though to stop him from what, she wasn’t quite sure. Something in the shifting expression on his face told her he’d made up his mind to rescue her. Not just from the crowd of shrieking miscreants, but also from herself.

  “Enough.” He wrapped his arms around her waist and tugged.

  Her foot slipped off the wheel, but before he could drag her away like some wounded animal, Lucy instinctively snatched hold of the wheel in both her hands. She wrapped her fingers around the spokes and held on like a barnacle attached to a wet rock. “For pity’s sake! If you’d only listen for a moment, I’d be happy to explain myself.”

  My goodness, how calm she sounded! Perhaps she was growing accustomed to being dragged about by giant Scottish gentlemen. A handy skill, really. Even so, it was humiliating to be clinging to a carriage wheel with a large man attached to her waist. It occurred to her perhaps Eloisa and her aunt were right about her hoydenish ways. She didn’t like them to be right, but wrestling with a bleeding man at a prizefight wasn’t precisely ladylike—

  “Keep arguing, lass, and you’ll get us both killed.” He leaned over her, pressed his chest against her back and hissed in her ear. “Look behind us.” He kept an arm around her waist and jerked them both around. Her feet met the ground, and he gripped her chin in hard fingers and turned her head toward the crowd. “See that? That brawl is about to become a riot, and in another moment you’re going to be trapped in the middle of it.”

  Lucy’s mouth fell open. Dear God, what a swarm of scoundrels! While she’d been arguing with the Scot, the crowd had gotten closer. Fists flew as they rained blows down upon each other. Not four paces away from her a man was hunched over, his hands on his knees, spitting blood onto the ground.

  Lucy shuddered, but before she could look away another man caught her eye and gave her a grisly leer. Then he slammed his fist into the side of the hunched man’s head and sent him sprawling face-first into the dirt.

  “Now then, lass. I’ll ask you again.” The Scot tightened his grip on her chin and turned her face back to his. “Do you want to get yourself killed?”

  Lucy swallowed. “No, I’d, ah…I’d just as soon not.” At least half a dozen savages now stood between her and her escape route. She could either succumb to another round of excessive heroics, or die a violent death.

  “There’s a clever lass.” Without another word he jerked her roughly into his arms and began to shove his way through the crowd. Lucy sputtered in protest at this high-handed treatment, and he glared down at her in warning. “If you squirm, I’ll have to toss you over my shoulder.”

  Lucy stilled, considering this. She’d come out this afternoon in search of adventures, and dangling head over heels across a gentleman’s broad shoulder certainly qualified as one. Still, as thrilling as it might be to be thrown over his shoulder, this situation hardly called for more excitement. “Very well. Where are you taking me?”

  His long-legged strides ate up the ground. “To my carriage.”

  His carriage? That didn’t sound quite proper either, but she supposed she’d lost the right to quibble over propriety when she’d come to a bout and gotten caught in the midst of a brawl. “What then?”

  “Once we’re free of the crowd I’ll take you back to your lodgings, and hope to God you’re canny enough to keep away from deserted beaches and bare-knuckle bouts in the future.”

  My, he was determined to save her, wasn’t he? For a brief second Lucy wondered whether she needed saving, but then dismissed the idea. She wasn’t some hazy-eyed debutante, but a grown woman. She was a trifle naïve, yes, but that was what had led her out this afternoon in the first place.

  She had a great deal of lost time to make up for.

  “Over here!”

  The Scot swung around with her still clutched in his arms. Lucy caught sight of another gentleman—this one also tall, with fair hair—standing next to a carriage that had been freed from the tangle of conveyances and stood waiting, horses at the ready. The man waved his hat in the air with one hand and beckoned to them with the other.

  “Just in time.”Her captor, or rescuer—Lucy hadn’t yet decided which—hitched her higher in his arms and strode toward the carriage. “Be still, and we’ll be out of here soon enough.”

  Before they could take more than two steps toward the carriage, however, a man in a mud-stained shirt came out of nowhere and grabbed Lucy’s ankle. “That’s a pretty little bit ye got there.” He leered down at her, then smirked at her Scot. “Care to share ’er? Plenty to go around, ain’t there?”

  The broad shoulder under Lucy’s palm went rigid. “Take your hand off the lady. Now.”

  Lucy’s eyes widened and a shiver darted up her spine at the icy warning in that voice. She wasn’t easily cowed, but she wouldn’t think to defy a command spoken with such menace.

  But the scoundrel, who was more than a little befuddled with drink, chose to ignore the warning. He gave her foot a sharp tug and nearly sent her toppling. “Don’t s’pose she’s a lady.” He spat on the ground. “Not a proper one, leastways. Not ’ere.”

  Lucy felt a low, furious growl vibrate in the Scot’s broad chest, and knew at once he wouldn’t issue a second warning. Oh, dear. Now they’d get into a brawl, and the Scot would have to put her down to trade blows, and if he should be beaten to a pulp she’d be left alone with a villain who was intent on grabbing far more than her ankle.

  It would have to be another assault, then. “Proper enough, I promise you.” Lucy jerked at her ankle with such sudden and unexpected force the scoundrel was caught off guard. He lost his grip, and once she was free of him, she didn’t hesitate.

  She kicked him as hard as she could in the chin with her heel.

  Hoyden, indeed. She’d been in Brighton less than four days, and she’d already kicked two gentlemen in the face.

  The man staggered backward, but he managed to keep his feet under him. He ran a hand over his bruised chin, his furious gaze on Lucy. “Bloody wench.”

  He moved forward to grab her again, but the Scot—who was much more agile than one might assume, given his size—lunged for the man with Lucy still in his arms. He caught him just behind the knees with a vicious kick, sending him flat to his back on the ground. Then he delivered a second kick to the man’s ribs to ensure he’d stay there.

  Lucy peered down at the man writhing on the ground, then turned to the Scot with wide eyes. “Well done.”

  He only grunted in reply, but his gaze met hers for a brief instant before he looked away. He really did have the loveliest pair of blue eyes she’d ever seen. Why, what a waste it was for a mere man to have such luxurious eyelashes! She was burning to find out whether they were really as dark and lush as she thought, but he didn’t spare her another glance.

  By the time they reached the carriage, the fair-haired gentleman was red-faced and muttering curses. “Christ, you’ve cut it a bit close, haven’t you?” He nodded toward the tangled, heaving mass of men surging closer every minute. “I beg your pardon, miss,” he added, with a polite bow for Lucy that looked rather ludicrous, given the circumstances. “I’m Lord Vale, and your disheveled champion here is—”

  “Never mind, Vale.” The Scot dropped Lucy unceremoniously to her feet in front of the carriage door. “This isn’t a ballroom. There’s no need for introductions.”

&nb
sp; “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Lord Vale.” Lucy felt a bit foolish curtsying while a riot raged next to her, but gentlemen such as these—fashionable, handsome, and titled gentlemen—were used to impeccable manners, bloodied mouth and brawls notwithstanding. Besides, if Aunt Jarvis ever discovered she’d met a pair of lords and hadn’t curtsied, a riot would pale in comparison to her wrath.

  Lord Vale slid a solicitous hand under her elbow. “Are you quite all right, miss? No danger of a swoon?”

  “Certainly not.”

  Her dark-haired rescuer snorted. “She nearly laid a man flat with a kick to the chin, Vale. I don’t think she’s the sort who swoons.”

  “Did she indeed?” Lord Vale’s gaze roamed over her with new appreciation, then he turned back to his friend with a smothered laugh. “Then she rescued you, didn’t she?”

  “Oh, no, my lord,” Lucy hastened to clarify. “Not at all. You see, I did kick that man, but it was this gentleman who—”

  “Beg pardon, lass, but can we chat another time? We’re steps away from being dragged into a riot.” Her dark-haired rescuer yanked the carriage door open, wrapped his hand around Lucy’s arm, and urged her inside. “Any way you choose, Harrison,” he called to the coachman, “Just get us out of here. Come on, Vale.”

  “No. I rode Horatio from the Abbey, remember? He’s tethered just there, at the crest of the hill. I’ll fetch him and ride directly home. Might even make it back home by three if I hurry, and escape a scold from my sister Felicia.”

  The Scot nodded. “Right. Good man, Vale.”

  Lord Vale slapped him on the back with a grin. “Deuced awkward time to decide to be a hero.” He leaned through the window and smiled at Lucy. “It’s been a singular pleasure, Miss. Good day.”

  Lucy waved as the blue-eyed Scot leapt into the carriage and slammed the door behind him. They watched until Lord Vale reached his horse and swung safely up into the saddle, then the Scot pounded a fist against the roof. The carriage jerked into motion and began to pick through the tangle of frenzied men and frightened horses.