“I shall not die,” he replied offhandedly. “There are only two of them, and I now have two pistols.”
“How do you know?” she asked quickly before he could try to leave again. “And if you die, who will find André?”
“Céleste, I shall not die.”
“But how do you know?” she stressed. “If you die, I shall never get the satisfaction of killing you myself.”
Nick took in a deep breath and let it out slowly as he turned to fully face Céleste. He clutched her shoulders, and her heart skipped a beat. The lunatic sent warm shivers all over her that penetrated to her core and stayed with her long after his touch was gone. He was the only man alive who could do that to her, and he wasn’t even trying. She ought to hate him for it.
“Céleste, it has been a rough couple of days, and you are tired. We both are. But there are only two of them, and neither believes me to be capable of a single comprehensible thought. Besides, I don’t plan on allowing anyone to end my life before I have found my son. Until then, you will simply have to wait in line with the others.”
“Why not just pick them off from here?” she suggested weakly.
“Because I would rather not kill them if I don’t have to. I want them to fix this axle, and I want them to do it quickly,” he explained. “Now, I recommend you cover your ears in about thirty seconds, and whatever you do, don’t look.”
Céleste narrowed her eyes warily. “Why?”
Nick smiled mischievously, then winked before slipping around the carriage.
* * *
Their coachman sat still soundly tied to a tree while the two highwaymen were hunched over Céleste’s open trunk, rummaging through yards of skirts and silk stockings.
Henri, Nick then realized, was built like a blacksmith. A large, muscular one who made Nick look like a scrawny adolescent.
That should make things interesting.
Nick shook his head disappointedly and clicked his tongue, causing both men to swing around on their haunches, one holding up a pair of rather fetching silk stockings Nick would pay a fortune to see on Céleste.
“I knew I was right,” Nick drawled. “Any brigand willing to take a lady’s stockings made of inferior silk must be desperate.”
Jean was clutching the stockings to his chest, glaring daggers, but that was not why Nick had to fight a chuckle. He could hear Céleste threaten to strangle him from behind the carriage.
“Get back where you were,” Jean growled.
Nick smiled crookedly. “See here, my tacky fellow. I do not follow orders from men in lady’s stockings. I shall stand where I please.”
“Go or you will not be standing much longer.” Jean slipped his hand into his coat.
“No, you don’t.” Nick was faster, pulling out his pistol first. He hoped that would be enough to stop them. He couldn’t shoot them. Wounded men made terrible carriage fixers, and Nick had a sneaking suspicion Céleste wasn’t going anywhere without her trunk of frilly stockings.
As it happened, it was not enough to stop them.
Henri hunched over and charged, sending him down in a billow of dust. Nick grunted as he hit the ground, crushed between earth and a growling mountain of muscle.
Henri would go for the pistol first—he was already grabbing for it—but that would put Nick at an unquestionable disadvantage. He quickly tossed his gun under the carriage, leaving himself open for Henri to make the first move.
A fist pounded into his jaw, and pain radiated through his entire skull. Fending off the second blow with his arm, he grabbed Henri and rolled. If he were to have any chance of winning this fight, he had to get off the ground, and soon.
Nick threw Henri off during the tumble, managing to distance himself enough to get to his feet.
When the dust cleared, both men stood, facing each other with raised fists.
Nick waited. Henri was belligerent, and though he was strong, he didn’t seem a strategic fighter. He would make the first move, which was fine with Nick. He liked studying his opponent before jumping into a fight. Not knowing how the other man fought was a good way to lose the bout.
Henri bared his teeth and moved in for the strike, swinging a hard right hook, just the sort of attack Nick had expected.
Nick bent back, easily dodging the fist. He dodged two more similar attempts before landing his own, striking hard and fast.
Blood flew from Henri’s mouth on impact, sending the bruiser back several paces. He was affected. Good. Nick was worried the method might be more effort than it was worth.
This would be the moment for Nick to strategize his next move if a cry of distress had not caught his attention.
He turned to find Céleste watching the barbaric display, wide-eyed, her hands clutching the pistol he had tossed under the carriage.
“I told you not to peek!” he scolded. “You should not be watching this, and definitely don’t try to use that. You will kill me!”
“I know, but—Nick!” she called out a split second before he was struck in the temple.
Stars flooded his vision. The power of the blow twisted him sideways, sending him to the ground. He couldn’t see straight, but he instinctually caught himself on all fours and struggled to his feet. Otherwise, he was likely to become rather closely acquainted with Henri’s boot.
He shook his head to clear it, focusing just in time to dodge another set of blows.
This time, when he heard the distressing cry, he ignored it.
It didn’t take a genius to know Henri would take advantage of a distraction. Allowing his attention to wander had been a novice mistake, and it had cost him. His rattled brain was processing more slowly and pounding like the dickens.
“Christ, I hate fisticuffs,” Nick muttered, trying to focus on the colossus standing across from him.
Then Henri came forward again with several blows meant for Nick’s jaw, which Nick dodged, though only barely.
When he found his opening, he threw his fist at Henri’s face with a force that might have killed a smaller man. Henri only staggered, dazed, but a second strike sent him crumbling to the ground.
Nick stood, panting heavily, waiting for the giant to drag himself to his feet. Thankfully, Henri seemed sufficiently immobile.
The sliver of relief evaporated when a pistol cocked behind him.
“Oh, come now. Have you no sense of sportsmanship?” Nick drawled exasperatedly as he turned around. “I won that fight fair and—”
Nick’s words cut off abruptly when he realized the pistol was his, and Céleste was pointing it point-blank at Jean’s brain locker. She looked glorious… and furious.
Nick’s lips pulled into a crooked smile. “Why, Lady Dumonte, how clever of you.”
“You might have been clever, too,” she said with that slightly raised brow of hers, denoting her disapproval. “But it seems you preferred rolling about in the dirt, fighting like some sort of animal, and getting blood all over you.”
“He started it,” Nick pointed out as he attempted to straighten his cravat.
“He nearly ended it, too. Along with your life.”
“Poppycock.”
She looked murderous, and no doubt, she was silently ranting, as Saint Brides did when he wasn’t in a good humor, which was most of the time. However, Saint Brides had never made Nick uncomfortable in the way she was now.
Nick cleared his throat and went to her, holding out his hand. “Perhaps you will relinquish the weapon.”
Her eyes narrowed.
“The thing is cocked and ready to fire with the smallest effort,” Nick said. “Do you wish to blow this brigand’s brains out, or would you rather him repair our vehicle back to working order?”
Céleste’s face blanched, and Nick immediately regretted his choice of words. Grief was no stranger to him, and he, of all people, should have been more sensitive.
She handed him the pistol, then mutely moved to get back inside the carriage.
* * *
By the time
Céleste reached the carriage, her vision had blurred, and her throat felt thick. The image Nick had conjured was painful. It always was when she thought of Pierre’s death, but only recently, she had been finding it difficult to keep her emotions hidden. Ever since the handsome Englishman had graced her ballroom, she’d had rushes of them bursting unrestrained.
It was true she was known as a cold and reserved woman. She had to be. If she were not reserved and cold, she would start to feel again, and feeling was unbearably painful.
Now she had no houseful of guests to surround herself with—her usual source of strength and comfort. She could not promenade the Champs de Élysées during the fashionable hour or focus on selecting the perfect gown to display for the ton.
She was stranded in a broken carriage on a dusty road in the middle of nowhere with the one man who could force her to feel. And feel she did.
With no distractions for her to utilize, she was faced with the fact that she felt abandoned and alone. She felt unloved and unable to love. And she was afraid—utterly terrified—because she had unwittingly opened her heart to a scoundrel who would never give his heart in return.
Outside, she heard the repairs begin on the busted yoke. Within fifteen minutes, she heard laughing. Ten minutes after that, she heard singing. Apparently, Nick had won over two brigands set on killing him.
She peeked out the window to find Nick’s torn and soiled coat laying on the ground with his cravat while he worked away at the repairs with Jean, Henri, and their coachman. Half an hour later, the horses were hitched to the fully repaired carriage, and their driver was back on his perch.
Nick opened the carriage door and got inside.
“I hope you understand,” he said to Jean and Henri as he settled in his seat opposite Céleste. “I am sure you will find other passersby to ambush soon.”
“I am certain of it,” Jean answered. “Don’t worry about us.” He shut the door and backed away.
“Oh, I shall not,” Nick muttered as he knocked the ceiling with his knuckles. Then they were rocked into motion.
Céleste watched him settle back into the squabs, grunting and stretching his legs as much as the small space would allow. The man was coatless, hatless, and still missing his cravat. He was covered in dust, and blood spots dotted his cuffs and shirt points. Still, he was a criminally attractive man.
He closed his eyes and leaned his head back. The insufferable rogue was about to take a nap!
“You almost got yourself killed.”
“I had it under control,” he muttered.
“You almost got me killed,” she added irritably, though she had been far more worried over him. “Had I not aimed a loaded gun at that man’s head, he would have murdered us both.”
“Gad, m’girl, I still had the other pistol, and I am a much better shot,” Nick replied sleepily. He folded his arms over his chest, shifting to a more comfortable position. “Carriage fixing is quite an exhausting exercise. Wake me up when we reach Le Havre, hm?”
* * *
Nick did not want to sleep, but he would be of no use to André if he were too exhausted to think and too sore to fight. Besides, Céleste was furious, which only made him want to perch her on his lap and kiss her senseless. Thus, he got as comfortable as he could and forced himself to nod off.
Chapter 11
It was late in the evening when they finally arrived at the coaching inn in Le Havre where they were to meet Saint Brides. He had already arranged for their rooms to be on the same floor and for a hot bath to be sent up upon their arrival. A hot meal would follow, an actual hot, freshly cooked meal fit for human consumption. Then Nick would start his search while Saint Brides grabbed a few hours of sleep.
The inn was bustling with life as people sat, eating and drinking in the common room. Foul mouthed, bawdy women mingled with the patrons, who were made up mostly of pirates and smugglers over-imbibing cheap liquor and singing loudly.
And badly.
Nick took the room keys and moved to quickly escort Céleste to her room. This was no place for a lady, nor did it boast any gentlemen other than Saint Brides and himself. However, it was an establishment where none of them would be recognized, even if anyone there were sober enough to see past their own nose.
He kept her close to shield her, making his way up the stairs and doing his best to ignore the whistles and vulgar remarks as they went. Lady Dumonte was beautiful, despite a hard day’s travel, and Nick wasn’t the only one to notice. They were noticing so intently they completely missed his warning black look.
Once she was settled in her room, he would go back downstairs and teach them a thing or two about manners. His jaw ached, and his fist was beginning to lose circulation by the time they reached her room.
Nick unlocked the door and stepped in, taking a precautionary glance around the room. The fireplace was already lit, filling the room with a warm glow.
“Well, this is cozy,” Nick said. “Perhaps not very stylish. There is no style at all, in fact. Still, it is only for tonight and leagues better than sleeping in a carriage.”
Nick heard the door close behind him and stiffened. He had not forgotten how difficult it had been in the carriage to keep his hands and lips to himself. Now they were in a bedroom with a fire blazing and the moon shining right outside their window. It was too deuced romantic.
“Céleste, that door ought to stay open.”
“I am fully aware of the dictates of propriety,” she said. “I do not need a scoundrel to remind me of them.”
“It seems you do,” Nick said.
“I don’t want anyone overhearing.”
Nick smiled crookedly. “Here now. It wouldn’t be anything they have not heard before. If these walls could talk—”
“You are insufferable.”
“No, Lady Dumonte. You are insufferable.” He turned around to face her. “From the very beginning, I knew you would be a gargantuan thorn in my side, but I had no idea you were so naive.” Or passionate, wounded, and as much in need of love as he was.
If he had known, he would never have stepped foot in her ballroom. Her cold reserve and utter lack of feeling were the only things keeping her from breaking every heart in Paris, including his.
Her eyes flashed at him. “I am not naive.”
“Then you do realize you have just locked yourself in a bedroom with a notorious scoundrel?”
“How else are we to speak privately?”
Good heavens, she was practically innocent when it came to men, was she not? Even after all he had shown her of his rakish nature.
“How else, indeed,” Nick said, stepping toward her. “And what if I have no wish to talk?”
She didn’t so much as flinch when he advanced. She wore the same severe expression she used against the masses. It must be quite effective usually. Obviously, it did nothing for him except make him itch to strip off every bit of clothing on her body and lick her all over.
“I am a gargantuan thorn in your side,” she snapped. “And you are an egotistical ape begging for someone to send you to the devil. What else is there to do, short of killing one another?”
He regarded her wickedly, from her dark hair to the dusty hem of her dress and back, lingering deliberately on the delicious bits in-between.
Her expression did not change, but her color rose prettily.
“I could think up a grand slew of activities I would rather do with you than talk.” Nick stopped a few inches shy of pushing her over. “Killing you barely made the top ten.”
“How endearing,” she said flatly. “But I have had more than my fill of scoundrels. I have no desire to be used and discarded by any man ever again, especially you.”
She thought he had used her? Perhaps he had. He certainly had not meant to. Sure, he had kissed her, fully intending to sail for England and never see her again, but he rather thought the desire for that conclusion was mutual.
She shook her head. “Speaking with you is useless and absurd. I am goi
ng back to Paris before you get us both killed.”
She turned for the door, but Nick caught her arm. She couldn’t go downstairs alone. Those men would hurt her. She would be pushed against the wall and raped before she could clear the stairs.
Then he would have to kill them. All of them.
“You cannot just leave,” he said. “It’s dangerous.”
“And what will happen to me when you are not here to protect me?” Her brow rose slightly, challenging him to prove her wrong.
But she was right, and she knew it. Every day he awoke, knowing it could be his last. It was part of the job. Still, at least she had a chance with him.
“Céleste—”
“As phenomenal as your death would be, being abandoned in Le Havre is not worth my witnessing it.”
“Abandoned?” Nick asked. “I am not abandoning you. That is the opposite of what I am doing.”
“It’s only a matter of time.”
His face felt flushed, and his hands fisted at his side. “Devil take it, Céleste. I am trying to save your life! What more do you want from me?”
“All you have given me are headaches. I do not want anything from you except to never see you again.”
A sharp pain cut through his chest. “Oh, is that what it was? A headache? I could have sworn it was pleasure that was consuming you while my mouth took yours.”
“Scoundrel!” she cried hotly. “Your son is missing, and all you care about are a few moments of pleasure?”
Nick’s jaw hardened, but he forced a smile. “I shall take what I can get.”
“You have no heart!”
“I simply cannot afford one, m’dear.” If only he had no heart, if only he could look at things stoically, as Saint Brides did, then André might stand a better chance.
“I imagine a heart would get in the way of your lurid entertainments,” she said with angry, narrowed eyes.
“Perhaps,” he muttered. “What’s your excuse?”
Her eyes told him his barb had struck true.
“Oh, I know you only pretend not to have a heart, but what I want to know is why,” he went on. “Is it for self-preservation? You cannot be brokenhearted if you have no heart to break?”
To Win a Scoundrel's Heart (The Lords of Whitehall Book 2) Page 18
