In the Devil's Bed (Sins of the Duke Book 1) (20 page)

“Jack!” she yelled out.

A man in dark clothes, a black cloth over his face with two slits for eyes, strode from behind the heavy velvet curtains and rushed at her.

Regan grabbed the edges of the tub, trying to scramble out of the water, but he dashed to the side of the bath. He grabbed her shoulders and pushed her down under the water.

Regan screamed. Bubbles blew up from her mouth, brushing her face. Hard, large hands stung her flesh.

Thrashing at the water with her legs, Regan clawed her nails into his fleshy wrists. An exhale of bubbles gurgled around her. Her lungs tightened, burning.
If you scream again you will die.
Regan clamped her mouth shut. She blinked and stared up through the water, spotting her red hair floating about.

The man’s figure twisted in bizarre shapes through the choppy water. Regan dug her fingers into the man’s wrists, twisting and pushing. But he wouldn’t let go. Snapping her head to the side, his cloth-covered arm brushed against her face. Regan opened her mouth and sunk her teeth into the fabric and ground down.

A cry, sounding a million miles away, thrummed through the water. She tried to pull herself up. But he shook her shoulders and banged her head against the copper tub. Pain shot through Regan’s skull. She let go of his arms, gasping. Water gushed into her lungs. A fire burned in her chest, threatening to rip her body apart.

She was floating. Her fingers relaxed and she let go of the man’s wrists. Drifting into darkness.

***

A
giggle, then a low answering moan, rang through the door on Jack’s left. He snorted. Bloody house parties. Everyone was tupping everyone. Jack pulled at the lapels of his coat, then dropped his hands to his sides.

He shook his head and strode down the wide hall. Shadows twisted against the walls from the light of the candelabras.

As he neared Regan’s door, the sound of water splashing wildly echoed down the hall. A grunt, male, filtered through the splashing. Jack’s breath caught in his throat.
What the bloody hell?

Panic thundered through him. Without thinking, Jack rammed himself against her door. A growl ripped from his throat as it crashed inward. Wood splintered and cracked.

The man standing by the tub, his brown jacket soaked, jerked his head in Jack’s direction. His hands were in the water, holding something down.

Regan.

Fear drummed through him, an emotion he hadn’t felt since that day at Badajoz where Devlin’s blood has pulsed out onto the earth. She wasn’t dead. She was not.

The man stumbled back from the tub, his eyes widened, stretching the black mask.

Jack lunged across the floor, wishing he had worn his pistol under his evening coat. He reached behind his back and slid one of the knives from the sheath tucked in his trousers. Gripping the blade with his fingers, Jack took aim at the man’s shoulder.

He wanted the killer disabled, but not dead. Jack threw the knife. The man groaned as the blade sliced into his side. He collapsed to the floor, his hand grabbing at the hilt.

Jack darted to the tub. Regan floated just beneath the surface, her red hair pooling about her head like seaweed. The sweep of her lashes brushed her cheeks and her mouth was open slightly.

He thrust his hands into the warm water. A growl ripped through the air around him as he grabbed her shoulders and yanked her upward. Water poured over his body and slid down Regan’s naked, white skin in sheets. He jerked her into the crook of his left arm then pinched her nose and pressed his mouth to hers. He blew. She would not die. She would not.

Her head sagged against his shoulder. Jack tilted her head back then lowered his mouth to hers again, blowing. Offering her his breath, needing her to take it more than anything in his life.

Regan coughed into his mouth, her body shuddering against his. He pulled his head back as she sucked in a great gasp of air. Her eyelashes twitched then her lids flew open.

Relief rushed through Jack’s blood, pumping him full of intense energy.

“You bastard! You have interfered—“ The attacker shoved himself up. He yanked his mask further down, his blue eyes barely visible in the slits.

More than anything, Jack wanted to rush Regan out of the room. But he had to bring the man down. He let her go and she stumbled, but kept her footing. “Regan! Run!”

Jack jerked his attention towards the attacker. The man grabbed the knife and yanked it from his shoulder. A moan ripped from his lips and, instantly, a dark stain sprawled along the tear in his dark coat. His eyes darted about, searching wildly for escape. He held the bloody knife out, blade to the side, light on the balls of his feet.

Bloody hell. The man knew what he was doing.

The man cocked his head to the side. “I want no trouble with you. Only her.”

Every perfectly formed syllable grated on Jack’s nerves. “Trouble with her, means trouble with me.”

Jack yanked his evening coat off. Quickly, he twisted his coat about his left arm, then he pulled his other knife from the sheath at his waistband.

They circled each other, but never drew close enough to slash. He wanted the man’s blood. To make him pay for touching Regan. For nearly killing her.

The man darted in, sweeping the knife in a slicing movement towards Jack’s midsection. Jack jumped to the right then came back and slammed his free hand into the man’s jaw. The man’s head cracked back and he staggered.

Lunging back, Jack kept his eyes trained on his opponent’s movements. Looking for weaknesses. They circled and Jack darted in with his knife, slicing through flesh and scraping rib bones. The attacker shrieked then grabbed hold of Jack. His thick fingers dug into Jack’s arm and he pulled Jack towards him. His knife hand came up jabbing towards Jack’s neck.

A movement of white and red flashed in the corner of Jack’s eye. Regan swung a poker high over her head then brought it down with a bloodcurdling scream. A loud crack of bone breaking pierced the room. The attacker screamed and dropped his knife. Jack grabbed the man’s shoulders and rushed him up against the wall.

The wall shook and a painting crashed to the floor.

Firmly holding his knife to the man’s throat, Jack glanced over his shoulder to make sure Regan was all right. She stood near the fire, her eyes wide and flashing. Her hair streamed over her naked body, her fingers gripping the poker as if it were a part of her hands. Confusion and fear warred in her eyes.

“Regan,” his voice rasped. He didn’t know what to say, but at that moment, nothing stood between them. Nothing except for the fact that they had fought for their lives and survived. She dropped the poker. It clattered on the floor and she flinched.

Anger boiled inside him as Jack jerked back to the attacker. Jack shoved him harder into the wall, relishing the feeling of his fingers digging into the man’s flesh. The faint give of the man’s neck skin slitting ever so slightly beneath the point of his knife.
“Who are you?”
he demanded.

The man closed his eyes, his lips pressing into a tight line.

Jack slammed him harder against the wall. A decorative wall plate crashed to the floor. “I said, who are you?”

The attacker opened his eyes. Defiance glimmered in them. “Go to the devil.”

Jack cocked his head to the side. “You’ll tell me or I’ll find out if you breath as well with blood bubbling in your windpipe.”

Regan ran to the bed and swept up the long bath sheet draped over the blue coverlet. Wrapping it around herself, she yelled, “I shall call for help.”

In that moment, the man gritted his teeth, grabbed Jack’s wrist, and drove the knife deep into his own throat.

Jack’s eyes widened as blood flew into the air. Regan screamed as the attacker’s body jerked. His mouth opened and closed. He shuddered, the man’s muscles tensing under Jack’s fingers. And then the attacker’s body went limp. Jack grabbed the body before it could hit the floor.

What the bloody hell? Jack stared at the dead man. The knife stuck out from an odd angle in the space between the mask and his dark cotton shirt, and he lay twisted, his body resting unnaturally on his arm. He’d killed himself. The man had grabbed the knife and shoved it into his own throat.

Shaking her head, Regan crossed the room and dropped to her knees beside the dead man. Holding her sheet closed with one hand, she stretched the other shaky hand out to the body. Her forehead creased as her face tensed with disbelief.

Jack drew in a steadying breath and wiped the warm blood from his hands onto his pants. He slid his fingers around Regan’s cool, naked shoulders. His fingers brushed the linen sheet wrapped around her chest as he pulled her back. Hoping his presence would reassure her. For no words ever could.

She opened and closed her mouth, staring down at the knife sticking out of the man’s throat. Blood dripped from the severed flesh, trailing in a slow drip, drip, to the wood floor. Her hair fell over Jack’s fingers, damp and heavy. “Regan.”

She continued to stare at the slain man.

Gently, Jack pulled her up and against him. Her breasts, covered in thin linen, pressed into his chest. He cradled her head against his shoulder and ran his hands in circles over her naked back. ”I didn’t kill him. I swear it. He pulled the knife straight into his own throat.”

Her head nodded in jerking motions. “I k-know. I’ve never seen— Not like that. This cannot be real.”

Jack squeezed his eyes shut. Moments of death never seemed real. Hell, it would not seem real for days. But it would sink in. If not today, then next week. If not in a week, a month. It always did. But she wouldn’t be alone. Not like he had been.

A shriek tore through the room, raising the hair on the back of Jack’s neck.

“Captain Hazard!”

Regan tensed against him, her fingers digging into his arms. He winced.
Shit
. Jack lifted his head and took in Lady Wells, her emerald green evening gown almost black in the candlelight. He kept his arms firmly around Regan. “Yes, Lady Wells?”

“He is— He is dead!” Her high voice pierced Jack’s ears.

Murmuring, like the low buzz of wasps, traveled through the hall. Jack ground his teeth, resisting the urge to growl a comment on her powers of observation. “Yes,” Jack gritted.

Regan tilted her head away from Jack’s face, but held tightly to his arms as if he were a shield to be worn in battle. “Please close the door, Lady Wells,” stated Regan, her voice strong and unwavering.

For a woman nearly murdered, her voice sounded calm. Cool even. Like a woman ordering a maid to fetch her slippers. Knowing she was in shock, Jack gently rubbed his palm against her back in a slow circle.

“What? The d-door?” Lady Wells’ glance turned towards the splintered frame and her eyes widened. “Good Lord. What has happened?” she shrieked.

Jack stared down at Regan’s face. The color seeped from it, leaving it paler than milk. “He attempted to murder Lady Regan.”

Several gasps echoed from the hall. Lady Wells blanched and placed a hand to her curled hair. “You killed him?”

Jack pressed Regan tightly to his chest, relishing her body against his. She squeezed her arms about him and turned to Lady Wells. “No. The man killed himself.”

“Regan? Regan!” Sylvia’s voice rose above the others. “Get away you ruddy cows,” she hissed.

Regan glanced up at her aunt, shadows darkening her eyes. “Thank God, for her.”

Jack nodded. If someone could disperse the vultures without force, it was Sylvia. Sylvia hurried to Regan and started patting Regan’s shoulders and back as if to make sure her niece was, indeed, all right. “I would recommend that you two let go of each other,” she whispered.
“Now
.”

Taking Sylvia’s hand in hers, Regan stepped away, her eyes trained on Jack.

Jack turned to the doorway.

Lady Wells stood in its center. Several other men and women in their evening attire and dressing robes stood behind her. Her eyes narrowed as she stared at the red splatters around the room. “There is blood everywhere,” condemned Lady Wells.

Jack glared at the woman. Didn’t she understand the gravity of what happened? “I think it would be best if you called the bailiffs or a magistrate.”

“To incarcerate you?” asked Lady Wells.

“No, not for me. For the dead man. He was going to commit murder,” he stated, his voice growing lower as he fought the need to yell at the woman.

Several more gasps from the people behind Lady Wells filled the room. Jack cocked his head to the side, leveling a challenging gaze at Lady Wells. “The real danger here is that he broke into your home. . . With seemingly little effort.”

Lady Wells’ narrow eyes darted back toward the bath and the water-soaked floor. She flinched and paled as she stared at the blood spilling in long fingers across the hardwood from the man’s neck.

“I see.” Lady Wells swallowed. Backing away, she puffed out sharp breaths of air. “How did he get in? How?” she wailed, clearly more afraid for herself than anything else.

“Out of the way! Everyone back to bed. For Christ’s sake, out of the way.” Adam Ashecroft, of all people, shoved his way through the crowd, towering above the nobles as he stepped into the room. His long great coat was spattered with rain water and his hair was wind-blown as if he’d only just arrived. “Rumors are spreading like wildfire through the house. I arrived just an hour ago. I thought you might need assistance in this hell house.”

Adam’s pupils were abnormally large in his green eyes and the muscles at his neck stood tense, as if he’d just been through a fight. Jack narrowed his eyes. What the hell was wrong with him? Jack shook his head. There was no time. “Take a look at the dead man. Without moving his body.”

“Certainly.”

Jack turned back to Lady Wells and strode towards the door. “All of you,” he swept a warning glance over the thin, pale, overbred faces. “Back to your rooms,” his voice growled more than he had intended.

One by one, the crowd stepped back. Several of them craned their necks as they walked by the door, attempting to glimpse the body. Lady Wells squared her shoulders. “This is my home. How dare you—“