Lord Ruin (35 page)

Suddenly, Ruan had a perfect shot. If only his thundering heart didn’t throw him off and kill Anne instead. Durling’s blade rose, arcing through the air.

The back door slammed open with a bang that sent Devon’s pulse surging to racehorse speed. One of the men, the larger of the two who’d been downstairs playing dice and drinking, burst out and flat-out ran over Devon, who hit the ground hard enough to knock the breath from him. While Dev gasped for air, the giant man, stinking of ale, recovered his balance and was halfway to the stable by the time Benjamin came in pursuit.

Benjamin tackled him twenty feet from the stable. The moment he managed to pull in a lungful of air, Devon went to Benjamin’s aid. The fellow fought with the strength of a man drunk enough to have no sense: graceless and with massive arms flailing. It took the two of them to subdue the ox, as tall as Ruan and wider by half.

Devon fell on him, crushing his knee onto the back of the ruffian’s neck. “Where’s the other one?” Devon asked with a backward glance.

Benjamin, for all that he’d fought as hard as Dev, looked ready to walk into any London salon. He brushed a bit of dust off his shoulder and grinned with only the faintest chill in his eyes. “Passed out. With a little persuasion from Thrale. Man’s got a fist like iron.”

The sound of breaking glass fractured their attention. Devon looked up just in time to see a man jump or fall from a second-story window. He made a lucky landing. With a shake of his head, he rolled to his feet and ran like hell.

“I’ve got this one,” Benjamin said, nodding at the man prostrate on the ground. “That’s Thrale’s valet, Basset,” he said. “After him.”

Devon took off at a dead sprint. This Basset fellow possessed not an ounce of finesse. He could think of a dozen better ways to escape a house than crashing out a second-story window. But, then, he’d never had Ruan after him, either. The devil headed for the road, taking a straight line through brush and tall grass until suddenly he veered off at an angle. Devon’s feet hardly touched the ground. The carriage, with Emily inside, was clearly the other man’s target.

Afterward, he was never really sure precisely what happened. Basset leapt for the carriage—Devon nearly on him, certain his chest was going to burst for want of sufficient air—and managed to haul himself onto the seat and tumble Henry backward onto the road. Basset got the reins in one hand and the driver’s whip in the other. With a bellow to fairly split the eardrums, he lashed the drays.

Unused to the whip, the startled horses bolted. Dev caught the back of the carriage by the tips of his fingers and damned near had his shoulders dislocated by the jolt. He hauled himself onto the step where a postilion would cling. An undignified yelp came from inside: Emily being knocked to the floor.

“Stay down!” he roared, not knowing if she would hear him over the rumbling, snapping rush of a carriage out of control. The rest was more or less a blur. Dev crawled over the top of the vehicle, he later could not recall that he feared being dashed to his death, though he ought to have, and gave Basset a tremendous blow to the jaw as he snatched for the reins. And nearly got them, too.

By the time he did have them, he was upside down on the seat with Basset trying his damnedest to throttle him. A kick to Basset’s chin freed Devon long enough to right himself and haul on one of the reins. The other flapped just out of his reach. The carriage took a stomach-churning lurch to the left. Basset toppled sideways off the driver’s seat. He clung to the side, feet dangling inches from the ground and the wheels that would snap his legs like twigs, leaving Devon to stop the pell-mell rush of the horses.

The coach swayed like a ship on a swelling sea. At last, Devon caught the other rein and hauled back until he thought his arms would burst his skin and his feet punch through the boards. Basset dropped off the side but Dev now had the horses stopped, and he threw himself after the man with a shout to bring down all the fiends of hell. In ten steps, he had Basset by the collar and they fell to the ground in a heap.

Basset jackknifed and nearly threw Devon head over heels. Dust choked him, filled his eyes and mouth. Basset landed a punch to his ribs, then he had Dev by the throat. Air became a suddenly precious commodity.

“Stop.” A woman’s voice.

With a desperate surge of strength, Devon clapped Basset’s ears as hard as he could. Roaring with pain, Basset fell back and Dev rolled away, head hanging, gasping. He saw the absurd sight of Emily Sinclair, angelically, daintily beautiful in her pristine gown, pointing a gun in the general vicinity of Basset’s chest. She held it like she knew what to do with it, no sign of a tremor, her eye steady. Just as he’d taught her. Blessed girl had the courage of twenty men.

“If you move, sir, I will shoot you. Bracebridge, are you all right?”

Basset, alas, underestimated the enemy. Laughing, he leapt for Emily and the gun. Just in time, Devon covered his ears. Basset spun around and hit the ground, writhing and screaming like she’d got him in the balls instead of the shoulder. Devon staggered to his feet.

Emily scowled at Basset. “Need you make quite so much noise? I ought to shoot you again, just to shut you up.” Devon couldn’t help himself. He laughed, a very ungentlemanly sound. About then, the blood began pooling in the dust beneath Basset. Emily turned several shades of white. “Good heavens, he’s bleeding.”

“Of course he’s bleeding.” He roared with laughter. “You bloody well shot him, Em.”

Her eyes went big as saucers. “I shot him.”

Devon bent over Basset to inspect the wound. Blood seeped steadily but didn’t spurt. “I don’t think you nicked the artery. Be dead by now if you had.”

“Dead? Is he going to die?”

“I can’t say. He needs a surgeon.” He used Basset’s shirt to make a bandage, tore off another two strips to bind his hands and feet and hauled him inside the carriage. He secured the door and turned, surprised to find Emily close behind him. Grinning, he said, “The world lost a great soldier when you were born a female.”

“I am glad I’m not one.” She held out the gun. “I do not care for shooting people. It’s disagreeable.”

“Just the right touch of humility.” He winced when he took the gun from her and slipped it into his pocket.

That sharp pain up his shoulder meant he’d be in a good deal more discomfort tomorrow.

“Are you all right?”

“Of course.” He saw immediately he’d spoken with unnecessary curtness. She was already turning away from him. “Here, now,” he said, contritely, grabbing her upper arm. “I’m sorry.” Somehow, he pulled a little too hard, because her face ended up scant inches from his. Like Anne’s, the dark lashes were absurdly thick. Eyes the color of the sky opened wide, viscerally, sweetly vulnerable. He knew when a woman needed to be kissed, and Emily Sinclair needed to be kissed. Emotions already raging, he reacted on pure instinct, which in his case proved disastrous. His instincts had never been very proper.

He lowered his head to hers and kissed her. Not a platonic kiss, but as a man does a woman he intends to bed. Raw lust, primal and demanding of satisfaction, filled him. He ravished her mouth, parting her lips, delving, touching her teeth and tongue. He backed her toward the coach, and when she could go no farther he held on to the door and pressed himself against her, flattened his groin against her, grinding in imitation of what he would do when he had her naked and was between her thighs. The image of her underneath him danced in his vision. And Emily, the little witch he thought he so thoroughly disliked, wasn’t resisting at all.

Her bosom rose and fell against his chest. The moment her back hit the carriage, her arms went around him, hanging on for dear life. With all his soul, he wanted to grab her hand and bring it down to where his erection bulged against his trousers. Whatever common sense he possessed evaporated and he would have sworn he heard the sound of his control snapping like a twig. He tugged at the neckline of her bosom, cradling the bare skin above her gown because he wanted the peak of her breast between his teeth.

“Milord?”

Moments and inches from his goal, Devon forced his eyes from the creamy flesh of Emily’s bosom and looked over his shoulder. Henry stumbled toward them.

“Milord, is she all right? Has the bastard hurt her?”

Emily suddenly went limp against him. He grabbed her waist to keep her from hitting the ground and found she had swooned, quite deliberately and falsely, in such a fashion that it was possible for him to remove his hand from her bosom without Henry seeing direct evidence of what he’d interrupted. Her eyes fluttered open when she felt both his hands around her waist.

“She is overcome with emotion.” He faced Henry, thinking if he’d been half as cold-blooded during his thieving days as the woman in his arms, Corth Abby would be twice its size. Hell, if he’d had Emily with him, Corth Abby would be a bloody great palace. The sound of a distant shot took all their minds off the present.

Emily straightened a bit too hastily fer a woman overwhelmed by sensation. “Anne.”

The hilt of Durling’s knife struck the floor with a thud then spun wildly across the planks until it hit the toe of Ruan’s boot. Anne’s eyes flickered open, and she moaned. In a voice so triumphant with rage that Ruan felt the curse rather than heard it, Martin screamed and aimed his gun at Durling and Anne.

Durling could have saved himself. He could have done nothing and probably kept himself entirely out of harm’s way. But he didn’t. Instead, he shoved Anne to the floor and launched himself at Martin. The shot slammed into his chest. Durling staggered back and hit the wall. He clapped his hands over his chest but nothing stanched the red flow. The smell of gunpowder slowly sharpened in the air.

“Now,” Martin said, his chest a bellows fanning whatever fire burned in him. He aimed straight at Ruan’s head and grinned. “Before I kill you, where are the damn diamonds?”

Anne’s eyes popped open. She stayed motionless on the floor.

“Anne was right about you,” Ruan said, willing himself not to look at his wife lest Martin see she was awake and aware. She wasn’t near enough to reach the knife.

“The money, your grace.”

“When Anne is safe.”

“Oh, but I am not finished with her. I was about to find out what’s had you so worked up since you got married when Durling, the poor lamented fool, interfered.” Martin nudged Anne with the toe of his boot. She moaned and rolled. Her head lolled limp on her neck. And now she was close enough. “He was right, though. You’ll die knowing what I’m going to do to her.”

Anne’s fingers closed around the knife.

“Why?” Ruan asked, desperately afraid Martin would see her. “Why this?”

Martin swiped the back of his hand across his forehead. “I’ve often wondered about my compulsion. Why does one man drink to excess while another gambles away his fortune? Why is one a glutton and another a gourmand? I have decided the answer is a simple one. It’s how I am made, and I do not care to stop. Not even if I thought I could.”

Anne saw Ruan’s face slide into the same ice that seemed to have frozen her fear and stopped her heart from beating. He meant to shoot Martin and he would surely be shot in turn. She coiled her fingers around the knife and raised herself up on her knees, facing Martin. With both hands tight around the hilt, blindly she brought the blade down with all the force her aching arms could muster.

Everything happened at once. Steel slipped into flesh and grated against bone.

Martin howled.

A gun fired.

Something fell on her, pinning her to the floor. Pain shot along her shoulder and the side of her head.

“Good God!”

She tried to roll away and could not. Someone moaned, a pitiful sound. She forced herself to open her eyes but saw little but dark fabric. That pathetic noise was coming from her. The weight on her shifted, and suddenly she could see.

“Anne?” Aldreth bent over her.

Ruan stood over Martin, both hands gripping his pistol like he intended to fire again. His eyes were twin coals in a face devoid of emotion. Ludicrously, she noticed her husband was not his habitually immaculate self. He looked like he’d slept in his clothes. Lord, he wasn’t even wearing a coat. His white shirt hung partially loose from his trousers.

“Are you all right?” she asked Ruan. “Are you hurt?”

Aldreth gathered her in his arms. “Don’t look, Anne.”

The warning came too late. Anne saw Martin sprawled on the floor, his open-eyed gaze glassing over. Beneath his head and shoulders, a crimson pool slowly formed, burning into her memory. Ruan moved, distracting her.

When she looked at her husband he was inspecting his gun with a quite casual expression. As if killing a man were commonplace. He did look like he’d slept the night in his clothes. His jacket was rumpled and the crease of his trousers less than perfect. And his collar, which she had never seen less than meticulously arranged, was wildly crooked. He’d probably been terrorizing the staff, she thought. Aldreth brought her to her feet while Ruan used one hand to tuck his shirt into the waistband of his trousers. As Aldreth lifted her, she saw Julian Durling, half-sitting against the wall.

“Thank you,” she said to him.

Finished adjusting his clothes to his satisfaction, Cynssyr looked over. “He is dead.”

“He saved my life. He kept Martin away from me.”

“Are you all right?” Cynssyr asked softly. His green eyes were bleak. The gun disappeared into his coat pocket.

“Fine,” she said, even though her knees went to water when Aldreth loosened his grip on her. “The child, too,” she said in answer to his unspoken question.

“Good God.”

“Here.” Cynssyr handed her something. Her spectacles. They were bent, and when she put them on they perched unevenly on her nose. “You are covered in blood,” he said.

Anne looked. Red spattered her gown, some even on her hands. “I should like to go home. Very much.” She refused Aldreth’s arm, but Cynssyr insisted on taking her elbow.

“You were brave,” he said approvingly. “You kept your head.”

“I knew you would come.” In all honesty, she wasn’t sure if she spoke or if the words remained thought. Not for a moment had she doubted he would come. Cynssyr said nothing at all, so she supposed she hadn’t spoken. She needed his strength just to walk. The bent frames of her spectacles meant she saw well only through the right lense, a disconcerting feeling that impaired her already precarious balance. He carried her down the stairs, but set her down at the bottom.

Aldreth cleared his throat. “I’ll just go fetch Devon. See to the carriage. Have it brought round. Thrale’s taking care of the others, by the way. Good man to have in a crisis.” He hurried out the rear entrance, leaving Cynssyr the unenviable task of walking with her to the front door.

“What day is it?” she asked, surprised to see it was light outside, late morning even. Fixing on such mundane details helped her maintain her sanity. Whenever she closed her eyes she saw Durling’s empty stare or else the icy green of her husband’s eyes.

“Thursday.”

She didn’t realize she’d shivered until he put his coat around her shoulders. “It seems Thursday ought to have come and gone already.” She took a wobbly step toward the open front door. But for his steadying arm, she would not have made it.

Outside was quite a scene. Devon sat on the driver’s seat of a carriage, holding the ribbons like a coachman born. Emily sat on one side of him, Henry, pale and looking none too well, on the other. Thrale bodily lifted one of her captors into another carriage. Aldreth appeared from around the side of the house, shouting something indistinct to Devon before intercepting Thrale and helping him with another man, the one who’d started the vile talk about sharing her between them. He’d talked of having his turn after Durling and Wilberfoss were done. She shivered again, turning away so that she would not even
accidentally see those brown eyes again.

Though Cynssyr steadied her with an arm around her waist, descending the front stairs took an overwhelming effort. She had been tried enough. To the very limit of her soul’s endurance. More than anything, she wanted to collapse into his arms, but she held herself in check. She had to. He expected no less of her.

“Anne.” Emily clambered over Devon and slithered down the side of the carriage without a thought to propriety or decency. She gathered her skirts in both hands and ran to her. “Are you hurt? My God, you’ve blood all over you. Cynssyr, what have you done to her?” She pushed him hard enough to make him take a step backward. “Oaf, clod, bumpkin, you bloody great lout—”

Heedless of Anne’s grimy clothes, Emily threw her arms around her, hugging her tight and bursting into tears. “I’ll not forgive him for this. I won’t.” She glared behind her. “What a fool I was to think you’d changed!”

“Emily, you’re being a perfect goose. He saved my life,” said Anne, watching Devon walk slowly toward her. Dust coated him from head to toe, and he limped. She held out her hand.

“I was so afraid for you,” Emily cried, still embracing her. “Were you hurt? Why are you covered in blood? Cynssyr, why is there blood?”

“Emily,” Devon said, coming close enough to take Anne’s hand. “All will be explained in good time. Right now, however, your sister needs to go home.”

Emily bristled. “I know that.”

Devon raised Anne’s hand to his lips and kissed the back of her hand. “Are you well?”

All she could manage was a nod, and that was more effort than she cared to admit. Oh, Lord. She was safe. Free. Overwhelmed. Perfectly incapable of putting together two rational thoughts, let alone one.

Aldreth reappeared leading two horses, Cynssyr’s sorrel gelding and his own dun. He tied them to the back of the carriage. “I’ll drive,” he said, looking askance at Devon and his dusty clothes. “Henry, move over.”

The drive home was peculiar. Devon and Emily, sitting on the opposite side from her and Cynssyr, stayed as far from each other as it was possible to get, taking such care to avoid looking at one another that the more usual glaring daggers would have been an improvement. Bursts of conversation in which everyone spoke at once came crashing to a self-conscious halt. Even worse, during each of the silences Anne found herself leaning closer to Cynssyr’s solid warmth. Eventually, though, she heard enough disjointed bits and pieces of how she’d come to be rescued that she sat straight, though without quite leaving the protective circle of his arm.

“Emily, you—” Her voice cracked. “Emily, what were you thinking? You might have been killed.”

Cynssyr drew her close. “All is well, Anne,” he murmured. “You are safe. Emily is safe.” His breath stirred her hair, and he kissed the top of her head. “You are safe, and all is well.”

The remainder of her protest lost a good deal of bite because for some reason that inconsequential kiss nearly undid her. She swallowed hard against the lump in her throat. “What were the three of you thinking to let her come? And Richard, too. He ought to have known better.”

“Quite true,” Cynssyr said.

Devon gave Emily a queer look. “The woman is a force of nature. Nothing could have stopped her.” Another of the silences fell with Devon staring at his boots and Emily out the window. Peculiar. Most peculiar. When she wasn’t feeling like a noodle too long in the water she would reflect on the oddness of their behavior.

Ruan’s arm was around her shoulder, and she allowed herself the briefest moment of relaxation against him. No tears. There must be no tears. She must be strong for his sake. For now, it was enough to have him next to her. Or perhaps too much. He would send her to Cornwall, and she’d already learned how it felt to be apart from him. The trap had closed long ago, if only she’d had the eyes to see. In truth, whether she left or stayed, her heart was already broken.

Her eyes drifted closed, and she didn’t wake until he carried her up the front stairs. She was hardly conscious, fatigue burned her eyes, pulled her lids down so that several times she opened her eyes to the sudden realization that she’d very nearly been asleep. “The duchess is fine,” she heard Cynssyr say as he swept past Merchant and the rest of the servants. “She’ll need a bath,” he said, raising his voice to be heard over the applause, raucous cheers and even a few sobs. “Send one of the maids to her. And have a physic look after Henry.”

“Yes, your grace,” was all Anne heard before Cynssyr was heading up the stairs and into her room. He deposited her gently in the bathing room. One of the upstairs maids came in by the far door. Behind her were two footmen with a tub and two more with buckets of steaming water.

He gave the young woman an impenetrable stare. “Look after her. And call me if—anything should happen.”

She bent a solemn knee. “Your grace.”

Anne was glad to have her ruined gown off and even gladder to hear someone mutter something about throwing it directly in the fire. The bath felt marvelous. She barely made it to the bed before she fell asleep for a second time. When she woke she was alone in her bed. Blessedly clean. Bruised ribs made breathing something of an exercise in restraint, but she managed to pull on her dressing gown. Bent over like an old woman, she crept down the stairs. Voices from the French parlor told her where to look for Cynssyr, and the open door invited entry. If she was to have a broken heart, she might as well give in to her weakness. She just hoped Ruan would let her stay once he’d grown tired of her.