by Sara Portman
Oh God.
She had seen him before. He was the man from the road, the one who’d been tied to the broken coach when she’d come out of the woods. He hadn’t left them alone as he’d promised. He’d followed her.
“I don’t think I will get out of your way,” he said, sneering victoriously. “Where’s your fancy gent and his big dog now?”
“Not far behind,” she lied. “They’ll be here any moment.”
“Well, then,” he said, grabbing her arm roughly, just below her shoulder, “I guess we’d better hurry.”
She pulled against his hold. It hurt. “Let me be,” she said, knowing it was futile. She needed an actual weapon. She’d wasted her time with the hackney demonstration when what she’d needed was a gun. Even if she couldn’t shoot. She could still threaten with it, point it at him. Something. She yanked against his hold.
He only squeezed her arm more tightly. It pinched dreadfully.
“Stop wriggling, girl.”
“How did you find me here?” she asked. “Did you follow me?” She wouldn’t have thought it possible to follow that hackney driver, the way he darted through the streets.
He sneered again, showing a miscellaneous collection of rotting teeth and empty spaces. “I didn’t have to follow you. I’ve been right here, waiting for you.”
Waiting for her? How could that be? Why would he have ever heard of Lucy or the Brantwood Trading Company?
She stopped struggling. There was only one way he could have known. Oh God. Tears stung her eyes. No. He couldn’t be there. She had gotten so far away. She didn’t want to see him.
“Good morning, Juliana.”
Hearing his voice again after believing she was free of it made her skin twitch. He was there. She didn’t even look at him. She just closed her eyes and wept.
She felt him come closer. He was not much taller than she and his breath was at her ear when he hissed, “I hope for your sake you’ve gotten this little adventure out of your system.”
She hated him. She hated that she stood there, helpless, crying in defeat instead of facing him down, telling him what she thought of him, and refusing to be cowed. But the years had taught her that would only lead to a harsher punishment. She was caught. What resistance could she bring? She had no way to overpower both her father and his lackey.
But still, she could not reconcile with the defeat. And so she wept.
Her lack of struggle built her father’s confidence. “Did you really think you could go off on your own? You can’t even take care of yourself, you stupid girl. What do you know of the world?”
She opened her eyes then. She wanted to scream it was his fault—his—that she knew nothing of the world. She looked at him with his pointed nose, dark, squinting eyes, and always scowling mouth. She was grateful that she looked nothing like him. She hated him. She regretted looking. She put her head down and vowed she would never look directly at him again.
He reached for her, displacing the larger man’s hold and taking her arm in his own cruel grasp. “You’ve wasted a lot of my time and trouble,” he growled. “You’re going to pay for that.” He pulled at her and she stumbled forward. “Walk, girl,” he barked. “We’re getting out of this place.”
She pulled back half-heartedly, but it was a pointless resistance. Even if she could free herself from her father, the toothless one would intervene.
“I said walk,” he hissed. “And you’d better do it.”
She walked, stumbling forward, not seeing through her tears. She felt them reach her chin and fall to her dress.
“I always knew you weren’t worth the trouble,” he said continuing his tirade while she prayed for silence, prayed for a miracle. “You ran right to a man. A whore like your mother.” It wasn’t the first time he’d levied such insults at her. She was conditioned to hearing what a wanton her mother was and how grateful she should be for his firm hand in restraining her own wayward tendencies. “You thought you were clever, just like her. That you could run away from me. But you were wrong. Just like her.”
She stumbled again. Wrong? Just like her? She let these words roll around in her mind. Her entire life, her father had told her she was a whore like her mother, because her mother had run away. After her child’s imagination had cleared, she’d believed—as everyone else did—that her mother had selfishly run off, leaving her daughter in the very situation she found intolerable. And she’d never come back for her.
“You’ve behaved stupidly because you’ve always been stupid.” He stopped walking and yanked her around to face him. “Look at me,” he barked, shaking her until her eyes opened.
He was blurry, but she looked, already breaking her vow.
“If you try a stunt like this again, you will end up just like your mother. She was not half a clever as she thought, and neither are you.”
He turned and pulled on her to begin walking again.
No.
Her feet refused to move.
He had killed her.
He yanked again. She yanked back.
For years, she had wondered why she’d been abandoned. Why her mother didn’t care, didn’t come, didn’t try to find out about her at all. All that time, she’d been gone. Truly gone.
Dead.
He squeezed her arm impatiently and pulled her again.
No.
She twisted quickly and the unexpected movement allowed her to break from his hold.
“Grab her,” he barked to the other man.
The burly man easily captured her, closing his arms around her like a vise. Still she struggled. When that didn’t work, she kicked. He yelped and it spurred her on. She turned in his hold, clawing and scratching at his face and kicking with her feet. She drew her knee up to kick him again and made contact with his groin instead. He howled and his hold loosened.
She spun outward, then was yanked sharply backward by her hair. “Stop wasting my time,” her father hissed. He waved a short, club-like stick in her face. She hadn’t even noticed before that he had it. “You’ll get worse than a spoon, I promise you.”
She didn’t care.
The realization stunned her. She didn’t care how much he threatened or how badly he meant to hurt her. She wasn’t going to stop fighting him off and she was not going back to Beadwell with him. He could beat her with his club a thousand times. She would not stop fighting. She punched blindly with her fists, twisting and kicking, ignoring the stinging pull as he kept his hold on her hair.
“Let her go.”
Michael. Juliana stopped struggling. She tried to turn and look at him, but her father’s grip on her hair kept her from seeing him.
“This is none of your concern,” her father bit out.
She heard Gelert’s low rumbling growl and felt more affection for him in that moment than she’d ever believed possible for an animal. Her father waved at his associate and the burly man took hold of Juliana again. Her father let go and she righted herself, finally looking at Michael.
He stood tall and menacing, furious eyes trained on her father. One hand held a gun—a pistol this time—leveled at her father’s chest. The other hand was at his side, palm downward, signaling Gelert to hold. The dog stood fiercely at his side, teeth bared, hair standing on end.
It was, to Juliana, the most beautiful sight she had ever beheld.
“Let her go,” Michael repeated.
She saw her father look at the dog and the gun and sensed his indecision. He swallowed, but spoke with bravado. “I said before. This is not your concern. This is my daughter. She’s my responsibility. You and your dog can run along and trouble someone else.”
“Let her go,” Michael repeated, this time cocking the pistol.
Juliana tugged against the hold of the burly man, kicking him again. He smacked her face in response and Michael released Gelert.
; Juliana watched as Gelert lunged forward toward the man who held her. But she saw her father step forward as well, raising the club.
“No!” she shouted. She rushed forward, placing herself between them, turning.
The blow came down on her back instead of Gelert’s and she bucked with it, then crumpled forward in pain. She heard Gelert’s growl and the burly man yelp.
She heard a gunshot.
Chapter Twenty-One
Michael saw the moment she decided. He shouted to her, but she didn’t hear and he couldn’t get to her in time. He could only watch, helplessly, as the weapon came down forcefully on her back in a wicked blow. She arched back as it struck her, then doubled forward, crumpling to the ground. When her father raised the stick a second time, Michael didn’t hesitate.
He shot.
Crawford fell.
“Gelert. Enough,” he called, as he rushed to where Juliana lay curled on her side, frighteningly still. He crouched down and laid a hand on her shoulder. Indecision crippled him. If the blow had injured her, moving her incorrectly could make the injury worse.
She opened her eyes and spoke to him. “Michael. You came.”
“My God, Juliana.” Of course he had come. Thank God he had. She began to move on her own.
“Don’t,” he cautioned. “Not if you’re hurt.”
“I can move,” she whispered and stubbornly tried to push herself up, cringing as she did.
He slid his arms beneath her and slowly lifted her from the ground. The relief he felt at finally holding her in his arms was overwhelming, even if she was hurt. She slid her arms around his neck and laid her cheek against his chest as he cradled her, shielding her from the image of the two men on the ground. He touched his lips to her forehead.
“What the devil is going on here?” a new voice asked.
Michael heard the click of another cocked pistol and he froze, lips still pressed to Juliana’s brow. Calmly and slowly, he lifted his head. A man he had never seen before trained a pistol at them both, while keeping a wary eye on Gelert. He was well-dressed and neatly-groomed, so Michael surmised he was not an associate of Crawford, who seemed to only employ the dregs of society.
“She’s hurt,” Michael called to the man. “She needs to be examined by a physician.”
“How did she get hurt?” the new man asked, pistol still raised. “And what of those two?”
Keeping Juliana’s face turned away, Michael looked down at Crawford, face down on the quay, a growing red splotch on his back. Then he looked to check the other. He lay face upward, still groaning. Michael turned back to the newcomer. “Those two are beyond a physician’s help,” he said. He looked down at Juliana to see her reaction to this news. She met his gaze, gave the slightest nod, then closed her eyes.
“I see that,” the man said. “I’m wondering how they got that way.”
Michael met his stare unflinchingly. He should think it was obvious. “They tried to hurt her.”
The man with the gun looked back at him and, for a long moment, the two men said nothing.
Michael spoke first. “My name is Michael Rosevear. My father is the Marquess of Rosevear. This woman is under my protection and I assure you, the threat is over as it did not originate from either of us. You may put your weapon away. Mine is there.” Michael nodded toward the place on the ground where he’d dropped his pistol before rushing to Juliana’s aid.
The man considered this. He expelled a deep breath and lowered his weapon. “Bring her to my office,” he said. “I will send for a physician.”
Michael looked down at Juliana.
Her eyes were open again and staring up at him, wide and green. “I’m all right,” she said. “I don’t need a physician.” As she spoke, she tightened her hold, as though she feared this declaration might prompt him to set her down.
It was just as well that she preferred her present position, for he had no intention of altering it. “We shall let the physician decide if you are all right,” he told her.
Michael placed another kiss on her forehead and followed the newcomer through the doorway of the nearest in the row of whitewashed buildings. They entered into a large square room with a staircase along the back wall. The room smelled of new wood and was sparsely furnished with two desks and a few chairs. There was a long table along one wall. The desks were generally tidy. The table was covered in papers—ledgers, drawings, letters.
“There is an apartment upstairs,” the stranger said. “You can take her there.”
Michael nodded. “Thank you, Mr.—” He waited for the man to introduce himself.
“Brantwood,” the man said. “Bexley Brantwood.”
“Of course.” He looked down at Juliana and smiled at her surprise.
Mr. Brantwood eyed them curiously. “I beg your pardon?”
Michael stopped at the bottom of the stairs. “It is not a coincidence this altercation happened in front of your office, Mr. Brantwood. Miss Crawford was here looking for you.”
This declaration drew him closer to take a better look at Juliana. “I don’t recall ever meeting you, miss.”
“We haven’t met, Mr. Brantwood,” Juliana explained from her place in Michael’s arms. She looked up at Michael, blushing. “Perhaps you should put me down now,” she whispered.
As he didn’t agree, he said, “Not until I can assess your injury.”
Juliana coughed and continued her explanation. “I know your wife, Mr. Brantwood. I had hoped you would consider helping me because I am an acquaintance of Lucy’s.”
“What sort of help do you require, Miss—Crawford, was it?” He lifted a hand toward the door, indicating the quay outside. “Other than the obvious, of course.”
Michael watched the flush color her face again and answered for her. “Miss Crawford was hoping you might provide passage away from England and, more importantly, her father, but,”—he looked to the door—“that need has recently been resolved.”
Mr. Brantwood nodded as understanding dawned. “I see.” He indicated the staircase. “She can lie down upstairs. I will return after I find someone to send after a doctor.”
Michael sent him a grateful look. “Thank you.” He carried Juliana up the staircase, carefully adjusting his hold to bring her through the narrow doorway at the top. The upstairs room was as sparsely furnished as the lower, but with a bed and a chair, instead of desks. Gelert followed them into the room, investigating the corners and the smells before seating himself in the center.
Michael gently eased Juliana onto the narrow bed and let his eyes wander the length of her in a thorough examination. He untied her bonnet from beneath her chin and gently removed it.
She reached up and her hand closed around his wrist. “Michael, I don’t know how I will ever thank you. You saved me.” Her mouth tilted up at one corner in a wan half-smile. “Twice.”
Without thinking Michael leaned down and kissed that tilted corner. “I was almost too late,” he said, when he’d lifted his mouth from hers. His voice was thick. He took both of her hands in his then and held them. “Your father is dead, Juliana.”
“I know,” she said gravely. Her eyes closed and she said it again. “I know.”
Michael held her hand in the quiet and wished desperately to know her thoughts. He had not killed a man in a very long time and only ever before on the battlefield. He could not regret the choice—he would not go back to that moment and allow her to be beaten. The decision he regretted was leaving her alone in the first place. He knew she was in danger. She never should have been on her own. He was to blame for the fact that she had been.
Chapter Twenty-Two
The physician came and declared Juliana bruised, but otherwise unharmed, just as she had insisted. The authorities came as well and took the story from all involved. Juliana thought they must have been satisfied with the retelling of the morni
ng’s events, for they eventually left. Though she knew Michael tried to keep her from overhearing, she understood arrangements had been made for the removal of the fallen men. She wondered briefly where her father would be taken and buried, but she determined to set the thought from her mind. She would not mourn him
After the officials were gone, Michael came back upstairs to sit with Juliana, insistent that she rest despite clearance from the physician that she was not going to injure herself by getting out of the bed.
She was content to let him sit with her, as she took comfort in his presence. She didn’t know what more to say to him, but she knew she liked it better when he was there. He held her hand and it felt reassuring, but woefully insufficient. She wanted him to hold her tightly. She knew if he did, she would abandon her calm façade, cling to him desperately, and weep for her freedom. He didn’t, so for a time she lay quietly, just gazing into his eyes, wondering if he felt the same need as she to have him near. She reached up and brushed a fallen hair from his forehead and it felt perfectly right when he leaned down and kissed her.
“Oh.”
He lifted his mouth from hers and they turned in unison to see the owner of the new voice..
Lucy Betancourt. Or, she supposed, Brantwood now. The smartly dressed woman had halted in the doorway, looking anxious and uncertain as to whether she should enter.
Michael pulled away, but continued to hold Juliana’s hand. She was glad that he did.
“Hello Lucy,” Juliana said.
“Juliana,” she exclaimed and rushed forward. “Bex has told me everything. You were absolutely right to believe that we would help you. How are you feeling? Are you all right? What did the physician say?” Lucy’s eyes darted everywhere, conducting their own examination of Juliana’s state. They settled on the place where Juliana’s hand rested in Michael’s. She looked up at Michael. “Hello,” she said. “I am Lucy Brantwood.”
“Very good to meet you, Mrs. Brantwood. I am Michael Rosevear.”
Lucy’s eyes settled on their joined hands again. “Perhaps Juliana has told you that we grew up in the same village. I have known Juliana since we were children.” Her voice lilted higher. “Have you known Juliana long?”
