Devall's Angel

by Allison Lane

  * * * *

  Angela slowly regained consciousness, unsure where she was or what had happened. Every inch of her body ached. Sharper pains stabbed her head, her arm, and her side. Moisture trickled down her face. Memory seeped back, sending new fears raging through her breast. What had happened after she hit the wall? Had he finished the job of ravishing her?

  She tried to move, but dizziness and nausea forced her to remain still. One eye opened a slit. Blackness. It took a moment to realize that something blocked her view. Slowly sliding her arm up, she pulled the bottom of the curtain aside. She was still lying on the floor where he had thrown her.

  Relief surged. He surely would not have ravished her in this position. So her resistance had bought her some time. Carefully she scanned the room. He was gone.

  Weakness overwhelmed her, and it was long before she could again move. Silence reigned. Had he left the house?

  It took several minutes to pull herself into a sitting position and several more before she could attempt to stand. Every movement brought a surge of nausea. She fought it down as she had earlier fought the terror, refusing to give in, forcing her mind to catalog her injuries instead of dwelling on the swirling sickness. She must be as healthy as possible when he returned.

  Nothing seemed to be broken, though the bruises were deep and painful. It was possible that her ribs were cracked, and she doubtless suffered from concussion. The cut on her scalp had finally stopped bleeding, though considerable blood pooled on the floor. Using a bedpost for support, she managed to gain her feet. The dizziness increased, and she gasped for some time.

  Her first hope was the window. If she could escape, she could get help at a neighboring house. But one glance dashed that idea. Her effort to stand had dragged the draperies open. New iron bars blocked her exit. He had prepared her prison well. Still grasping the bedpost, she concentrated on the next option.

  It was four steps to the door. She counted them in her mind over and over before she tried to walk them. One … two … three… Her leg gave way on the fourth, but she avoided collapse by grasping the handle with both hands.

  Locked.

  As she had feared. Atwater would not have left if she could escape.

  Despair threatened to overwhelm her, and she tottered to the chair, sinking into its soft depths. What did I do to deserve this? A barred window. A locked door. In her present weakened state, she had no chance of fighting him off a second time.

  But she refused to capitulate. I will not cry… I will not cry…

  Taking a deep breath, she rose and set about the task of finding a weapon. Too bad he had removed her reticule. Her penknife was inside.

  * * * *

  Devall sat in menacing silence all the way to Kensington. They had delayed long enough to collect a closed carriage, hoping that Angela would be able to use it. Neither Jack’s phaeton nor Devall’s stallion could have returned her to Clifford Street unnoticed. The coach was one Devall often used in London, sporting no crest or other identifying mark that might advertise his presence.

  No plans formed as his grays sped through the streets. Nor did he respond to any of Jack’s comments. His mind was trapped in a new hell, one he had never expected but that had closed about him the moment Lady Sylvia had explained her summons. He still could not believe it, though all his senses screamed the truth. How could he have been so incredibly stupid?

  He was in love with Angela Warren.

  It was so unexpected that he could hardly breathe. He had banished all tender feelings as part of his adjustment to ostracism. Marriage was out of the question. His reputation loomed between him and the world. Having just restored Angela’s, he could do nothing to tarnish it – which meant avoiding her completely. Even if he corrected every rumor and every exaggeration, he would never be socially acceptable. The hard, cold facts condemned him on their own. He had jilted Penelope. He was responsible for two deaths, neither of which had occurred in battle or on a field of honor.

  He brutally thrust emotion aside. His immediate concern was to rescue her. And this time he would not allow Atwater to escape. Abduction with violence put the man beyond all civilized responses. Even madness could not protect him from a well-deserved end.

  His blood ran cold at the thought of what Angela might already have suffered. Jerking his mind from Smith’s description of Lydia’s condition after that last beating, he tried to devise a plan of attack.

  What if she was not being held in Kensington? His watcher had reported little activity at the house. It was certainly not being used as a love nest – yet. And the man had promised to send immediate word if Atwater brought a female there. He shuddered. Had Lady Sylvia’s summons arrived first? Please, please, please…

  He clung to hope, for it meant that he might be in time, and firmly suppressed all fear that she was being held elsewhere.

  “We can’t just ram the door in,” said Jack as they turned the final corner. “This neighborhood is not that decadent.” Most of the cottages belonged to merchants. Only a few were used for immoral activities.

  “I have no idea what servants might be present,” Devall admitted, thankfully setting his fears aside. “If Atwater is near the door, he would never open it to me. Suppose we start by having you knock as though paying a routine call.”

  “Good. If that does not work, we had best go around to the back before forcing an entry. It is less conspicuous.”

  They pulled up before the cottage. Devall slipped into the yard, concealing himself behind a rose bush to one side of the entrance.

  But the precautions proved unnecessary. Jack quietly turned the handle, pushed the door open, and walked inside. Devall followed swiftly on his heels, his stare locking onto the reticule carelessly tossed onto a table. It was the one Angela carried when she rode in the park.

  Jack stopped in the drawing room doorway, his rigid back announcing better than words that disaster awaited.

  Thrusting his friend aside, Devall halted in turn.

  Atwater lay curled on the floor, wearing only a shirt, boots, and partially fastened breeches. A crumpled, blood-stained coat was near the fireplace. Arms, covered with blood and bruises, wrapped around his shoulders as he rocked back and forth.

  “My angel,” he crooned softly. “My gift from the gods. Mine. All mine. For always.”

  Furious, Devall jerked the earl to his feet and slammed him against the wall. “Where is she?” he demanded.

  More blood decorated Atwater’s shirt. Jagged scratches furrowed his face and chest, intersecting two deep cuts. But no fear appeared in those blue eyes. Not even anger. “My own true love, my angel,” he intoned.

  The calm response froze Devall’s hand in mid-swing. Cold seeped into his soul.

  “My little love,” continued Atwater as though he were alone. “I will protect you always. Keep you safe. You will never leave me. Never. Not like the others. My darling angel. So sweet. So beautiful. You adore me…” One hand lifted to push the hair from his brow, revealing a deep bite around the base of his thumb.

  “No!” choked Jack, staring in horrified fascination at the blank, unfocused eyes that seemed oblivious to the hands tightening around his neck. “Don’t do it, Devall. He is gone.”

  And it was true. Atwater was in another world, blind to everything, only his voice remaining behind. Devall stared at that childish face. Bile rose chokingly into his throat at the crooning words.

  “Don’t run! Why does everyone run away? Amelia. Lydia. Angela. Why won’t you move? Nobody moves. So much blood and nobody moves. Let me protect you, my love. See? We’ll wipe away the blood and you will be fine. Please love me. You must love me. Why won’t you move?”

  Cold seeped into Devall’s soul. And pity. His anger drained away, replaced by fear. What had Atwater done?

  “Look after him, Jack,” he ordered, his fingers now turning out the earl’s pockets. A knife, thankfully unbloodied; several keys; a cardcase; a handkerchief, also clean; a special license; a lady’s rin
g. “Escort him to Bethlehem hospital. Perhaps they can do something with him.”

  Jack wrapped a cloak around the earl and led him to the mews.

  Devall gingerly climbed the stairs, terrified of what he might find at the top. Whatever had happened, she had fought hard.

  * * * *

  Angela surveyed her arsenal and tried to keep despair at bay. Even the eyes of hope could hardly call it intimidating. The candlestick, which Atwater had unaccountably left in the room. A crockery pitcher and basin from the washstand. In her weakened state, she doubted she could lift them, let alone swing them hard enough to inflict any damage. A piece of whalebone that had been stuck in the back of a drawer, too flexible to puncture and too dull to cut.

  Footsteps on the stairs pushed her heart into her throat. Was this to be the last battle? A key scraped in the lock. Grasping the candlestick and again clutching her heavy skirts with her free hand, she drew in a deep breath and waited, her back pressed against the far wall.

  The door swung open to reveal Devall staring at her in horror. The candlestick dropped from suddenly numbed fingers as tears sprang to her eyes.

  * * * *

  Devall froze. Angela’s face was a welter of bruises, her hands stained with blood. An enormous lump just above her right temple would have killed her had it been even an inch lower. Yet she stood defiantly ready to do battle yet again. Boadicea herself.

  “Are you all right?” He stepped slowly into the room, unsure what her reaction would be.

  “Devall?” Tears raced down her cheeks as she stumbled forward. He caught her before she had gone two steps, pulling her tightly into his arms.

  “Angela,” he murmured, tears clouding his own vision. “Angela.” Lifting her, he settled into the chair, holding her close as she sobbed out her terror. “Everything will be all right now.” He gently stroked her hair.

  “It’s really you,” she said in wonder some time later, lifting a tear-streaked face to his own damp gaze.

  “You are safe,” he repeated for at least the fortieth time, lowering his head to hers. If the kiss he had stolen in the garden had been sweet, this was heaven itself. He tried to keep it light and gentle, but she met his lips, parting her own and allowing his tongue to plunder at will. Her hand smoothed a wayward lock of hair off his brow, pulling him closer. Her breath quickened in rhythm with his own. He groaned as his body responded, then forced himself to withdraw. This was the last thing she needed.

  “How badly are you hurt?” he asked instead, fighting to steady his breathing.

  “Bruises,” she admitted. “But nothing seems broken.”

  “Did he—” He stopped.

  “No.”

  Shivers convulsed her, and he again pulled her close, soothing and caressing, letting his strength flow into her until she was again calm.

  “We had best get you home,” he said at last. “Lady Sylvia is frantic, and Lady Trotter should be as bad by now.”

  “How am I ever going to explain this?” She swayed when she stood.

  “I will explain.” He supported her with his arms, resting her head against his shoulder. “You need not fear Atwater ever again. His mind is gone. Jack is taking him to the hospital. I expect he will end his days in an asylum.”

  Wrapping his cloak around her, he carried her down the stairs.

  * * * *

  Devall stared at the glass in his hand, morosely wondering what to do now. His neckcloth and jacket lay in an untidy heap on the floor, both ruined by blood from Angela’s face and hands. Sprawled haphazardly across a chair, he dared not rise. Even if his legs somehow supported him, his stomach would rebel against all the wine it held. But his brain remained maddenly clear.

  How could he have been so stupid? If only he really was the heartless beast people thought him. But he wasn’t. And now he had given that heart away. Living without it was going to be pure hell. And he wouldn’t even have the satisfaction of knowing she wanted it. Her response to his kisses meant nothing. He had initiated both when she was in too much shock to think straight. He hadn’t needed Jack’s diatribe to know he was a fool.

  Jack had called to tell him that Atwater was safely locked away. Already half drunk, Devall had not been capable of hiding either his satisfaction or his pain.

  “You’ve gotten yourself in a real muddle this time, Devall,” Jack had said, shaking his head. “What are you planning to do about Miss Warren?”

  “Nothing.” He’d emptied his glass and poured another. “She’ll be home in another week, and I’ll never see her again.”

  “What will she think of that?” demanded Jack sharply. “You’ve ruined her.”

  “Confound you—”

  “Not publicly, perhaps,” continued Jack, ignoring his anger. “Society will never know. But you pursued her, pressing for friendship and beyond. She’s learned to rely on you. Your support is all that has kept her going these past weeks. Walking out of her life now will destroy her.”

  Devall had changed the subject, but the words reverberated in his mind long after Jack was gone.

  Was it possible that she cared for him? Friendship was all she’d offered – and even that had surprised him. He was not a man people liked. Even his own family hated and feared him, so he could hardly expect anyone else to be different.

  Thus Jack was wrong. Whatever Angela felt was rooted in gratitude. It would pass. And once she returned to her own milieu, she would need no one. If ever a woman could look after herself, it was Angela Warren. Having successfully beaten off Atwater, nothing could stop her.

  Yet memories of their kisses teased his mind, raising unexpected guilt. God, he hoped Jack was wrong. How could he live with himself if he hurt her? And if she cared even a little, she couldn’t help but be hurt. They could never be together.

  But why must you live without her? asked an insidiously tempting voice. She preferred the country. If he worked hard enough, surely he could redeem himself – if not now, then over the next five or ten years.

  Yet brutal honesty admitted that it was a long shot. He couldn’t chance ruining her life and the lives of any children. His reputation was the least of his faults. He was an unfit mate for so caring a woman – as she herself had seen. He might consider himself a gentleman, but he used the label mostly to hide his defects from his own scrutiny. He followed the code only when it suited his purpose. In truth, he was a predator who harbored a cruel streak every bit as foul as in the men he hunted.

  He had enjoyed the fights with Cloverdale and Coldstream, and felt no sorrow at their deaths. If Atwater had shown even the tiniest spark of awareness, he would have throttled the man without remorse – and reveled in every second of it.

  She saw him too clearly, even recognizing the way he had goaded Cloverdale into attack. It was a fact he had never before admitted, even in the darkest recesses of his mind. Growing up in a brutal world had left him hard, with no compassion for the perpetrators of violence. And whatever his excuses, he himself was just such a man. His father’s legacy included more than his titles and estates.

  Angela deserved better than life in limbo, suspended between a society that would ignore her and the lower classes who were forever separated by the gulf of his title. She deserved more than a husband who could not keep even sincere vows to live within the law, and who could bring her only misery as a result. She deserved someone she could love and respect.

  He could offer her nothing. He was the antithesis of the husband she needed – satanic, violent, isolated, unlovable. It would never work. He must bury this unreasonable passion deep in his soul.

  Sighing, he drained the last of the wine, finally sliding to the floor in a stupor.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Atwater slammed a fist into her abdomen while his fingers drilled holes into her shoulder. Blood flowed. A swift kick crushed her hip, collapsing one leg and tumbling her to the floor.

  “You are mine! You must obey me!” he roared, dragging her up by the hair. Mad blue eyes stared sigh
tlessly into her own.

  “No!” She tried to push him away.

  Fury exploded, and he shook her like a rag doll, kicking and punching all the while. His face swooped to meet hers. Braced against the nausea of a kiss, she nearly expired from shock when he bit off her nose.

  Laughter taunted her ears. “Ungrateful wench!” cackled Lady Forley. “How dare you fight your husband? Do your duty like a good little girl. He’ll give me gold and jewels and a house in London as soon as he beds you.”

  “No!” she protested again.

  Atwater’s shaking intensified, as did the force of his blows. “Open your eyes and look at me!” he demanded, chewing a chunk from her shoulder. Bones snapped under the onslaught.

  “Well done, my lord,” cheered Lady Forley. “Teach her obedience. Teach her humility. Teach her how a proper lady thinks and acts. So unnatural a daughter deserves to be punished.”

  Angela fought the groping hands, struggling to escape that predatory mouth, but it was hopeless. She watched in horrified fascination as her body disintegrated under his onslaught, an arm hitting the wall, a leg landing atop the bed, her head rolling across the floor, its bumping forming a counterpoint to Lady Forley’s insane laughter…

  “Dear God, Angela, wake up! Open your eyes!”

  The frantic shouting finally penetrated. Angela groaned. Sylvia was shaking her shoulders, begging her to wake up. Every movement sent spasms of pain knifing through her injuries. “What…?” she began fuzzily.

  “You were dreaming,” said Sylvia, dropping into a chair with a relieved sigh. “And screaming.”

  Nightmares. Angela burst into tears, allowing Sylvia to pull her into her arms as she convulsed in sobs that bordered on hysteria. It was only a dream, she reminded herself over and over, but it didn’t help. The images were too real, and Sylvia’s comfort too ephemeral. She needed…

  What did she need? The answer hovered tantalizingly just out of reach.

  Severe stress had long triggered such dreams – her father’s death, her first foray into society, Garwood’s charges, Atwater’s lies. She should have expected it. New shudders wracked her. That cackling laughter would not retreat. She never should have taken the laudanum. It prevented her from escaping the dream world. She would endure any amount of pain to avoid being trapped there again.