“No, but I have been found out. They’ve discovered my true identity, suspect it is my intent to betray them, see them arrested and hanged.”
Marcus had adopted the moniker of Wolf, using part of the title he would have inherited if everything hadn’t gone awry. None of the men with whom he presently associated knew him by any other name. “How did they learn all that?”
“That’s the question, isn’t it? I haven’t a bloody clue. But I have to go away for a while, until things settle down and I can get it sorted.”
He’d anticipated that his brother might be in need of funds. Reaching inside his jacket, he removed a package and held it toward him. “I brought you some blunt.”
“I’m not going to take your money. I just wanted you to know I’d be scarce and the reason behind my absence so you wouldn’t come looking for me and endanger yourself.”
“Take it. I have more. Besides, one of the reasons I opened the club was to ensure we had funds at our disposal when they were needed.”
Marcus flashed a grin. “So you were correct. There is interest in a club for the unwed who are not in high demand.”
“Quite a bit of interest, actually. And more each day. To be honest, I’m astounded by the number of membership inquiries I receive.”
“Good for you. Too bad Father isn’t around to see your success.”
“He wouldn’t have cared.” The duke had never seen his second son as anything other than someone to be held in reserve in case he was ever needed. “And I never cared enough to impress him.”
“Just as well. As it turns out, he wasn’t worthy of any of us.” He took the packet. “I shall put this to good use. Thank you.”
“Do you know where you’ll go?”
“No. I just want—”
“Well, well, well, if it ain’t the son of a duke seeking his revenge. And who’d that be with ye, Wolf? Yer assassin, mayhap?”
As soon as the stranger’s voice had reached his ears, Griff had spun about. There were four of them, fanned out. But he paid scant attention to three of them. Only one was of interest to him. He was holding Kathryn against his chest, a knife to her throat. Touching her, threatening her, frightening her.
The footpad didn’t know it yet, but he was already dead.
“Bruise her, harm one hair on her head, and you’ll be begging for death by the time I’m done with you.”
The words spoken with such calm certainty sent icy fingers skittering down Kathryn’s spine. She suspected they’d done the same to the man holding her, if the slight jerking she’d felt in him, as though his body dearly wanted to retreat but was being forced to remain, was any indication.
It took her a heartbeat to accept that it was Griff who’d uttered them, Griff who gave the impression he possessed the ability to carry out the threat and would do so without remorse or regret.
He’d told her to go home, and she should have followed his directive, but when she’d seen him running, she’d called up to the driver to halt. She’d sat there in the carriage wringing her hands, striving to determine if she should send the coachman and footman to offer assistance, afraid he’d lied to her about remaining safe, that so much more was at stake than she had even a hint of. Working the docks may have scarred his hands, but she was beginning to suspect he had earned other scars that weren’t visible. He was no longer the sort of man who awoke among hedgerows or teased about freckles.
While she’d been wondering what kind of man he was, she’d heard grunts and muffled curses. The door had suddenly swung open, and she’d been dragged out by this blighter and watched in horror as his mates had bound her coachman and footman.
Now she stood, a figure in this strange tableau, a captive in an untenable situation for which she could envision no escape.
“Won’t hurt her at all, mate, if the two of ye go to yer knees and don’t fight the killing what’s to come.”
“No!” she cried out, as the ominous words chilled her to the bone and horrible images of what they foreshadowed rushed through her mind.
“Rest easy, Kathryn. Cowards who shield themselves with women never win.”
How could Griff sound so composed, so unbothered, as though he’d just announced that it was going to rain? While her heart was pounding so hard she was surprised it didn’t knock the man away from her.
Good Lord. Griff went to his knees without hesitation, and she wanted to scream. Marcus—she assumed that the silhouette standing a short distance away was Marcus—followed suit, lowering himself in the same manner that his brother had. Panic sought to take hold, but she fought it off, concentrating on her situation, what she could detect of it that might give her an edge.
“Whatever you do, Kathryn,” Griff said in that steady, conversational tone, “don’t stomp on his foot.”
“Why the bloody hell would she—”
Before he could finish, she did exactly what Griff had ordered not to do because she realized it was exactly what he wanted her to do. He’d served up a distraction. As the man who’d held her within his grasp had been speaking, his grip had slackened until his clothing barely whispered against hers, and the knife was nowhere near her skin where he could easily mark her. So she struck. Hard and with purpose. As he yelled and jerked back in reaction to the onslaught of her heel digging into his instep, she twisted away, escaping him completely.
A growl, fierce enough to shake the heavens, like that of a feral beast, echoed through the air. She turned back in time to see Griff smoothly lunging to his feet before charging forward, brandishing a sword—where the devil had he gotten that?
The odious man who had threatened her gave a little squeak like a frightened dormouse just before he was run through.
One of the other men was making a mad dash for her, and she skittered back but needn’t have bothered because Griff cut him off before he got close. A second fellow joined the brawl. With a quick glance around, she saw that Marcus was dealing with the fourth fellow, and she returned her attention to Griff battling the two. He’d not had time to reclaim his sword, but it appeared he had a knife, as did those he fought. Every now and then, moonlight glinted off steel. She wanted to rush into the middle of it and help him, but she stayed where she was, knowing it was wrong of her to find beauty in his feints and parries, in the skills he exhibited with such grace. While she was terrified for him, she recalled the confidence with which he’d spoken the night before about collecting what was owed to him. He knew how to carry out a threat, how to deliver a blow, how to be victorious—and she fought against creating any sound of alarm or any movement that might distract him from his purpose.
Swinging a leg up and around, he knocked one of the fellows to the ground, then took the other down by slamming into him. They rolled. She could barely see their movements in the darkness, but heard the slap of flesh hitting flesh, a moan, a cry, and silence.
Griff bounded up and turned his attention to the man he’d earlier kicked. The villain had regained his footing. Knives were clearly evident as they slowly circled each other.
“Drop the knife and run,” Griff ordered, his voice flat, without sentiment, as though he’d tightly bound all his emotions so they couldn’t interfere and prevent him from doing the unpleasant tasks that needed to be done in order to survive the ordeal. “I won’t give chase. You have my word.”
She sensed the fellow measuring the truth of his vow. How could he not hear the veracity in his opponent’s tone? Griff had felled two of his mates, and looking to the side, she saw that Marcus had taken down the third. Did this man think he stood a chance of beating Griff?
Griff who had gone to his knees in surrender, but in the end hadn’t surrendered at all? Who had never intended to surrender? Who had told her that he’d become quite skilled at effectively delivering a blow? He’d become skilled at more than that. He’d acquired a talent for surviving, and she was left to wonder what else he might have faced over the months since she’d last seen him.
“No knife in the ba
ck, then?” the man asked, and she heard the shrill of fear edging his voice.
“No.” And no fear whatsoever in Griff’s voice. He knew this battle was his to win. But he was showing mercy.
The footpad or assassin or whatever he was dropped his knife, spun on his heel, and took off at a run, loping past her as though the hounds of hell nipped at his ankles.
It was over. Her legs began to shake. Somehow, she’d misplaced her knees, because they didn’t seem to be there to support her, but still she managed to remain upright when she wanted to sink to the ground.
“Kathryn?”
Perhaps she wasn’t standing on her own as much as she’d thought, because Griff’s arm had come around her, and he’d drawn her up against his right side, holding her tightly, his face lowered so his lips brushed over her cheek when he spoke, his voice strained but gentle. “Brave, brave girl. Are you hurt?”
Only then did she realize that the edges of her vision had begun to darken, that she might actually have been in danger of swooning—danger, danger of swooning, she would never use that word danger so lightly again. But now that he was here, everything was becoming clearer. Tears threatened, but she forced them back. “No, no, I’m unharmed.”
She felt a shudder race through him. “I’m sorry to have placed you in danger.”
“I feared he was going to kill me,” she rasped.
“I’d have never let that happen.” The absolute conviction with which he spoke was a soothing balm. Besides, how could she doubt it when she’d witnessed how deadly he could be?
“You . . . you had a sword.”
“I carry it inside my walking stick.”
And a knife. She could feel it digging into her side, no doubt now housed in a scabbard hidden beneath his coat.
At the sound of grass being crushed by heavy feet, he turned slightly without relinquishing his hold on her. “Marcus, are you hurt?”
“No. You?”
“No.”
“Good.” He tipped his head slightly. “Lady Kathryn, not the most favorable circumstance upon which to see you again. How did you come to be here?”
“She gave me a ride in her carriage,” Griff said. “She was at the club. It was reckless of me to accept her offer.”
“You can’t blame yourself for what happened,” she assured him. “It was reckless of me not to leave as you ordered.”
“Your driver and footman?”
“They bound them up, but I think they’re unharmed.” They’d been mumbling and grumbling before they’d been gagged, so surely they were unhurt as well.
“I need to see them unbound then and ensure you get home safely.” He gave his attention back to his brother. “Marcus, can we take you somewhere?”
“I have a boat waiting for me up the river. You two should leave. I’ll take care of these three before I go.”
“Send word if you need anything.”
“I will. They shouldn’t come after you. It’s me they want. They don’t even know who you are. They certainly won’t know where to find you. You were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time, and I regret that. I was convinced I wasn’t being followed.”
“Do you think you can avoid them in the future?”
“I shall certainly try. Once I leave London, they shouldn’t come searching for me. They’ll think I’ve turned tail and run.”
“I hope you’re right about that.”
“It’s not your problem. You got out. Stay out.”
“If you need me—”
“I know, but I won’t.”
Griff gave a nod. “Excuse me for just a minute.” He strode over to the man he’d skewered and pulled free his sword.
“He had no choice, you know.”
She looked at Marcus. “Did either of you?”
“They were all a nasty bit of work. I suspect eventually each would have been introduced to the hangman. I wouldn’t have let the last fellow go, but then I’m not the one who would have had to live with him on my conscience.”
She was glad Griff had given the man a choice. He returned to her side, no evidence of the sword in sight, merely his walking stick. The man traveled with weapons. She was having a difficult time reconciling that fact, although perhaps she shouldn’t have been surprised. She’d a sense that life had changed him, that he was more dangerous than he’d been.
The brothers said their farewells and clapped each other on the shoulder. Then she and Griff began walking back toward the carriage.
“Why did they want to kill Marcus?” she finally asked.
“Because he intends to expose those who were working with Father, once he learns the name of the person who organized it all.”
“You were expecting trouble.”
“I always expect trouble when Marcus is involved. You were a clever girl to catch the meaning of what I was telling you to do.”
She shouldn’t have been so pleased by his praise. “At least I handled it better than I did the cheroot.”
He chuckled low. “You did indeed.”
At the carriage, his knife came out once again, and he cut the bindings on the coachman and footman, apologizing for the inconvenience, making it sound as though it had been ordinary footpads who’d come after them. She didn’t like this world he’d once inhabited and was glad he was free of it. She hoped Marcus was correct, and he would never again be bothered by the likes of those who’d wished them harm.
When she was tucked inside the conveyance, traveling toward her residence, with him sitting opposite her because he’d insisted that he would see her safely there and make his own way back to the club, she studied his silhouette and longed to have brought a lantern inside to see him more clearly. She’d sensed subtle changes in him at the club. A confidence and bearing that was as attractive as his features. But he was so much more complicated than she’d realized.
She wished he hadn’t released her, that when he’d climbed inside after her he’d settled on the squabs beside her, that his arm was once again around her and she was snuggled against his side. Standing on the banks of the Thames, with a knife at her throat, she’d thought of inconsequential things, things she would miss, things she wished she’d done. Things she wished she’d done with him. Another kiss. Another conversation. A laugh. A smile. A tease. God, even a tease would have been welcomed.
Odd thing that every thought had involved Griff. Poor Kingsland would have been left with the task of searching for another woman to woo into marriage, and yet she’d given him no thought. Perhaps because Griff had been there, and he hadn’t.
“It would be best if you didn’t tell anyone about tonight’s adventure,” he said quietly.
“I don’t think anyone would believe me.” She was having a difficult time believing it herself.
Glancing out the window, she fought to regain a sense of normalcy, to put what had happened earlier behind her, but it clung to her like the sea did when she first came up out of the water after going swimming at her grandmother’s cottage, threatening to suck her and her soaked clothing back down, to reclaim her. “When I kissed you last night, I did it in anger.”
It was one of the regrets that had bombarded her as she’d waited for the death she’d expected to come.
“I know.”
She’d done it to torment him, to punish him, and instead, she’d punished herself. It had tarnished the memory of the kiss he’d given her in the garden. She no longer wanted their final kiss to be one of anger. Once she married Kingsland, Griff’s lips would be forbidden to her, but tonight she’d been given an opportunity to replace their last kiss with another.
Pushing herself off the bench, balancing herself with the swaying of the carriage, she closed the short distance between them. He grunted as she settled on his lap, straddling him, her legs nestled on either side of his thighs. His hands bracketed her waist, steadying her as she cradled his face between her palms, enjoying the texture of his bristled jaw against her soft skin. It somehow made this moment more intim
ate. He remained still, waiting, and she wondered how his breathing could remain so steady when hers was frightfully erratic, when being so near to him caused rioting sensations to course through her. To be here when she knew she shouldn’t, to be here because she desired it. Because she’d faced death tonight—they’d both faced death—and they’d been victorious and to the victors belonged the spoils. And for her, that involved a kiss. From him.
“I want to kiss you. No anger this time. Only gratitude that it’s still a choice I have.” His lips parted before she reached them, before she angled his head to give her easier access to that which she sought. She recalled his earlier lesson about how some things were better when met with preparation, and so she teased, licking the corner of his mouth, the side that curled up whenever he wasn’t of a mind to give her a full smile, when he didn’t want her to know that he’d taken delight in her words or actions. With her tongue, she painted his lower lip, so full, so enticing, a cushion to hers that promised pleasure.
Groaning low, cupping the back of her head, holding her in place, he thrust his tongue into her mouth, ending her taunting, thrilling her with his impatience. She wasn’t the only one who wanted—needed—an affirmation that life, precious and dear, shouldn’t be wasted with regrets for moments lost. They had here, they had now, when they might have had nothing else at all.
Where was the harm in taking advantage of the parrying in which neither sought the defeat of the other but gloried in each stroke, each sweep, each suckle? She caught the barest hint of chocolate and spice, imagined it was the lingering remnants of the cheroot he’d smoked earlier. Did she reflect the same flavor?
She hoped he wasn’t tasting the fear that had brought a metallic tinge to her mouth. Not so much a fear for herself but for him. When he’d gone to his knees—
With deliberation, she pushed the recollection aside. She wanted this moment to wipe out the other memory, to give her moments to savor, to reflect on, to carry with her into slumber so she would dream of passion and desire. And when she awoke, it would be because her body yearned and craved.
Scoundrel of My Heart EPB Page 14
