Bombshell

by Sarah MacLean

  “No one worth listening to,” he said, his grubby fingers crawling up her leg, soiling the silk. She added ruining her new dress to the list of Crouch’s punishable offenses.

  Closer.

  A crash sounded from the far edge of the room, along with a howl of masculine pain. “It sounds like your friend who was aiming to set the place on fire has been thwarted. You get yours next.”

  “And who is going to give it to me, kitten?” His hand curled around her calf. “You?”

  She smiled brightly. “You’re going to be so surprised at the sharpness of my claws.” Without hesitation, she knocked him back with the table leg, sending him crashing into the casks behind him.

  His companion, larger and clearly even less intelligent, shouted, “Johnny! Wot ’appened?”

  “You bitch!” Johnny spat as he struggled to his feet, fury in his eyes.

  A roar sounded from behind her, followed by another smashing table.

  “Alright, Maggie?” Sesily asked.

  “Alright.” A flick of Maggie’s wrist, and the bottle had smashed on the lip of the bar. She held up the neck and a wicked jagged edge.

  Sesily tilted her head. “Impressive.”

  “I make do. We can’t all have monogrammed blades,” Maggie replied.

  “I shall have one made for you.”

  “Cheers, luv.”

  And then there was no time for conversation, because Johnny had found his feet again and Sesily was leaping down from the bar, putting it between them. He didn’t hesitate to follow—remarkably nimble considering he’d just taken a blow to the head—and Sesily backed away as he came for her, ready to punish.

  Her heart began to pound, and she prepared to fight even as she heard a mighty crack and a shout behind her.

  “That will be another one of your boys going down,” she said. “You see, there’s only one thing that American brute likes less than me being here, and that’s you being here.”

  Nervousness flashed in the man’s eyes, and his gaze slid past Sesily, searching for proof of her words. But, instead of finding reason for fear, he found something else.

  A wicked, triumphant smile came over his face. “Not my boy.”

  Then it was Sesily who was nervous. She couldn’t stop herself from turning to find the brute who’d been fighting Caleb tossing tables out of the way to get to the bar.

  No Caleb.

  Where was Caleb?

  She hesitated, panic edging into her consciousness when she couldn’t see him. And in the hesitation, the giant was on her, his hand wrapping around her left wrist, tight and uncomfortable. Unpleasant.

  He was going to break it.

  “Sesily!” Adelaide’s shout came from the far side of the room, followed by an insistent, “Imogen!”

  “I see!” Imogen replied, but it wasn’t enough. She wasn’t close enough.

  Mithra was coming through the door. Nora and Nik were tossing aside broken furniture as they crossed the pub.

  Everyone was too far away.

  Sesily winced and bent with the force of the bruiser’s grip, balling her right hand—not dominant, but still able to pack a punch—and letting fly, landing high enough on one of his massive cheeks to ensure he’d sport a bruise in the morning.

  Not that this seemed the kind of man who owned a mirror, let alone looked into it regularly.

  That, and it didn’t seem to impact him. She went for him again, this time landing the punch just as she lifted her knee in a sharp blow to his groin. He doubled over, and she was already passing him, her gaze tracking to a body on the floor in the distance. “Caleb!” she shouted, making her way toward him.

  Except the big brute grabbed her from behind.

  She struggled, unable to loosen his grip, casting about for an ally, finding the duchess several yards away, moving quickly, reaching into her pockets for something sharp and dangerous.

  Sesily shook her head. “Caleb needs help!”

  The words were barely out when her captor’s arm came round her neck, like steel. Tight. Too tight. She grabbed at the hand, scratching him. Squirming even as she knew that he was too big and too strong. He was going to kill her.

  Had he already killed Caleb?

  He would loathe having to die for her.

  She couldn’t breathe, but she could see the girls coming to her aid from all angles. And then she couldn’t see much at all, but she could hear—shouts and crashes and a wicked roar, and she thought she heard Imogen talking about chemical reactions, and it all seemed so far away . . .

  Chapter Six

  “Goddammit, Sesily, wake up. Right now.”

  As far as awakenings went, it wasn’t the most delicate one she’d ever received, but it worked. She had a cracking headache, and she gasped at the sharp pain. Her brow furrowed.

  A wicked curse sounded, in that broad American accent that never failed to garner her attention. “That’s right.” Another insistent growl. “Wake up.”

  A bright light shone through her eyelids and she turned her face away, into ready darkness and warmth. “No!”

  “Yes. Open your eyes, Sesily.”

  She lifted a hand to ward off the glaring light. “Make it stop,” she said into the darkness. “It is too bright.”

  A hesitation. And then, “Fine. Open your eyes.”

  She didn’t want to. She wanted to curl into the lovely warm cushion, scented with leather and amber, until the pain in her head subsided. “No.”

  “Oh, for—” The cushion moved. It wasn’t a cushion. It was Caleb. And he was moving her, like she weighed nothing, to reveal her face.

  She whined her displeasure, but the bright light subsided. Thank heavens.

  “Sesily Talbot, if you don’t open your eyes right fucking now . . .” The warning was full of fury and something else. Was it possible it was . . . fear?

  She opened her eyes.

  The lantern light remained bright enough to make her suffer. Her stomach roiled and she put her fingers to her brow as she groused at him. “There. Are you happy?”

  “No,” came the flat reply as he lifted the lantern, turned to the lowest setting, to look at her. “Look at me.”

  “You are so directive.” She did as she was told, quickly discovering that the pain was not the only reason she was overcome with queasiness. They were in a carriage, and it was moving at an extraordinary clip. She swallowed around the lump in her throat.

  “I wouldn’t have to be if you were more biddable,” he said, distracted, seizing her chin and tilting her face toward the light, his attention on her eyes. “Stay still.”

  “That might be . . .” She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “. . . difficult.”

  Another curse and he shifted, adding a second motion to the first, offensive one. Her insides tilted, and she willed herself not to cast up her accounts. Not here. Not with him.

  Horror warred with pain and embarrassment.

  “Perhaps you could—” Toss me from the carriage. Put me out of my misery.

  She wasn’t sure what she was going to ask, but he found a third option, holding her tight to his chest, twisting their bodies to shield hers with his enormous one, and raising a heavy, booted foot to kick out the window of the carriage, sending glass exploding into the street beyond.

  Surprise and something suspiciously like a thrill chased away nausea for a heartbeat.

  The conveyance slowed in the wake of the explosion, the coachman shouting, “Sir?”

  “Carry on,” Caleb shouted back, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket and wrapping it around his hand, clearing broken glass from the edge of the now empty window frame before moving her into the breeze whooshing round the interior of the carriage. “Breathe.”

  She did, closing her eyes and letting the fresh air wash over her, the roiling in her stomach almost immediately subsiding. “Thank you.”

  “I can’t have you retching in my carriage.”

  “Well then, we are both grateful for this turn of even
ts.” She took another deep breath. “I shall of course pay for the new glass.”

  “No need.” His hand returned to her chin, but he did not reply. She opened her eyes to discover him directly in front of her. “It is payment enough to know that Athena can be laid low by a carriage ride.”

  “Athena?” She shouldn’t like it. Certainly she shouldn’t reveal how much she liked it.

  “That’s what you looked like,” he said, staring into her eyes. No. Not into. Inspecting them. Searching, no doubt, for some evidence that she’d been harmed. “Leaping into the fight, like you were born on a battlefield.” When he spoke, his voice was low and soft, and if she didn’t know better, she’d think he cared for her. Which of course he didn’t. Not an hour earlier, he’d made it clear. I’ve no intention of catching you. “But even Athena required warriors, you madwoman.”

  The last carried the edge with which she was comfortable, and Sesily was grateful for it, not knowing how to respond to the softness. He was never soft with her.

  “Where are my friends?”

  “The motley group of women who fought by your side?” She watched him as he inspected her, his countenance belying his soft words—lips pressed together, jaw set, nostrils flared in what she knew was frustration. “I suppose they are your warriors?”

  “We are each other’s warriors,” she replied as he tilted her chin up, turning her toward the lantern light again. She allowed it, ignoring the shiver he sent through her when he set his fingers to her throat, stroking over the skin there. “Are they all well?”

  “Can you breathe?”

  “Yes. My friends. Are they—”

  He pressed gently at her neck. “Is there any pain?”

  She grabbed at his hand, her fingers wrapping around his wrist. Waited for him to look at her. “My friends, Caleb.”

  “The duchess saw us into the carriage, along with Miss Frampton. They assured me they would find their way out of trouble.”

  Sesily nodded. They’d never had difficulty escaping fights before. A vision flashed. Nik and Nora. Mithra. Maggie. “And the others? Maggie?”

  “All safe. Lady Imogen put the man who harmed you to sleep with a mysterious concoction and a handkerchief.”

  “Ah, yes. She is very proud of that trick.”

  “She should be,” he said, admiration in his tone. “I only wish she’d left him for me so I could have had the pleasure.”

  “You, too, have a deadly handkerchief?”

  “I do not require a handkerchief to punish the man who did this to you.”

  The calm words sent another thrill through her, but before she could ask him to elaborate, he’d returned his attention to her neck. She watched and took the opportunity to study him. His brow furrowed, and there, at the edge of his hairline, where his mahogany curls were pushed back in disarray, a stream of dark red, down his temple.

  Her hand flew to his face. “You’re bleeding!”

  “It’s nothing,” he said, dodging her touch and pressing the flat of his hand to the skin above the line of her dress, warm and steady. Safe. “Take another breath.”

  “I’m perfectly able to breathe, Caleb,” she said, defiantly. “I live, do I not?”

  “Remarkably, yes, considering you nearly got yourself killed.”

  “Only because I thought you were—” She stopped before she finished the sentence.

  His eyes narrowed. “I was what?”

  “You are bleeding. Let me—”

  He caught her wrist. “You thought I was what, Sesily?”

  She twisted in his grip. “I thought you were dead. I saw you on the ground. It . . . distracted me from the fight.”

  It was the wrong thing to say, he stiffened as though he’d been struck, releasing her. “You should not have been in the fight to begin with. Does your throat . . .” He cleared his own. “. . . does it pain you?”

  She swallowed gingerly. “Not much.”

  “It will. Tomorrow you shall be hoarse.”

  “I shall be fine,” she said, batting his hands away. “I am fine. But Caleb, you are bleeding. And you were knocked out, as well. Let me—”

  He ducked her touch again, lifting himself onto the opposite seat, pressing himself into the corner, as far from her as possible. “I’ve no need of your assistance. You should concern yourself with keeping the contents of your stomach within. We’ll be there soon.”

  “Arrived where?”

  “Your sister’s home.”

  The nausea returned. “No.”

  “It’s that or your parents’ home.”

  “Then I choose Park Lane.” The big, beautiful family home of the Earl and Countess of Wight.

  He nodded. “I’m not exactly dressed for an audience with them, but I suppose they’ll understand when I explain the events of the evening.”

  She cut him a look. “And how do you intend to explain them? Will you begin with the fact that I was perfectly safe until you turned up with your friend from Scotland Yard? Until you fairly summoned a gang of bruisers with your meddling in affairs that are not your own?”

  Shock filled his eyes, followed by realization. “You think they were watching Maggie’s.”

  “I think that anyone like Maggie—who prides herself on a place made safe for those who are used to feeling unsafe—is the enemy to those men and whoever funds them.” She paused, turning to the fresh air, annoyed by the ache in her throat and the rolling of her stomach. “And I think you would have thought the same if you’d taken a moment to think at all.”

  He was silent for a long moment in the wake of her censure, and she wondered if he was simply never going to speak again. Perhaps he’d just find the nearest boat and head back to Boston.

  No such luck. “That may be true, but there’s no question you’d be much safer if your parents bolted the doors and windows to ensure you remain out of trouble.”

  “I’m not a child, Caleb.”

  “You think I don’t see that?”

  She continued as though he had not spoken. “I’m a fully grown woman. I think it’s amusing you believe a little thing like a lock would keep me from living my life.”

  “I believe a little thing like a lock would keep you living. Full stop.”

  “You’re being dramatic,” she said.

  His eyes went wide. “You were unconscious!”

  “And now I’m perfectly fine!” Their gazes locked across the carriage, suddenly smaller than it had been. “There is absolutely no reason for you to involve yourself in my affairs. This is none of your concern.”

  He leveled her with a dark gaze. “Not an hour ago, I dragged you out of a destroyed tavern, Sesily, so I would say this is very much my concern.”

  She turned back to the window, though she did not think the possibility of being sick was from the motion of the carriage any longer. “I see you have painted yourself the hero here.”

  “Enlighten me with how this does not end with your entire family thanking me for coming to your aid and taking my—exceedingly reasonable, I might add—suggestion that you be sent to the country. Forever.”

  She smiled in his direction. “Oh, I’ve no doubt my mother and father would fall over themselves in gratitude,” she said. “Taking their reckless daughter in hand. In fact, I would go so far as to suggest that their thanks would extend to offering you payment you’ve no intention of collecting.”

  He stilled, and Sesily found herself grateful to discover that Caleb Calhoun remained intelligent, despite all evidence to the contrary in the previous quarter of an hour. “You mean marriage.”

  Sesily hated the way the words came out, like an unpleasant scrape. A knife pressed too hard against a plate. But she would never show it. Instead, she brazened it through. “Precisely! My mother would somersault the length of Hyde Park if you plucked me from my dusty shelf. And as for my father . . .” She paused for effect. “Well, consider the dowry carefully, because I’m certain he’d happily part with every hard-won farthing he has if it wo
uld encourage you to remove me from my place of honor round his neck.”

  Caleb’s gaze narrowed. “Your parents would never force a marriage between us.”

  Force. Amazing how so much meaning could be packed into one small word.

  She laughed, high and bright like broken glass. “I think my parents would host a wedding for the ages if you deigned to offer for my hand. And I think they’d make it impossible for you not to offer for my hand if you turned up at two o’clock in the morning with me in tow like this, skirts filthy, hair askew.”

  He watched her in the darkness for a long moment, the dim light casting shadows over his troubled face, the muscle in his jaw working at speed. “You’re right.”

  She hated the words even as she knew that they were the ones she’d been aiming for. Hated her triumph, even as she knew that she didn’t want marriage to Caleb any more than he wanted it from her.

  But did he have to look so horrified?

  She turned to face the breeze. “I know I’m right. But there is no need for you to worry. You are not destined for the parson’s noose.”

  “Why not?”

  She cut him a look. “First, as I said, I’m a grown woman, not some girl to be shoved down the aisle. And second, my parents are in the south of France until the spring.”

  On another night, with a different man, she might have enjoyed the wild play of emotions over his face, delighting in the guilt and surprise and shock and frustration and exasperation he could not hide from her.

  But it was not another night. He was not a different man. And Sesily did not enjoy the fact that his final emotion was relief.

  “So this was, what, toying with me?”

  She flashed him her finest grin. “I told you I was trouble.”

  “God knows that’s true.”

  “Drop me home, please.”

  “No.” She turned her head, disliking the casual refusal, the way he’d crossed his enormous arms over his enormous chest and leaned back into the corner like this was an American stagecoach and not a perfectly reasonably sized carriage into which he did not fit.