“Around the corner; there’s no room for it to stop here. Are you bamming me about not letting me go?”
“I don’t make jokes.”
“That’s the silliest thing I’ve ever heard,” she said, rather too loudly. “Everyone makes jokes, even people with no sense of humor like you.”
He yanked the arm he still held, making her bump into his chest. Hard.
“I assure you,” he snarled into her face, “that—”
But something odd happened then. She felt a shove from behind her, a sharp hit at her side. Lord Hope’s hands tightened painfully on her arms, and she saw that he was glaring murderously over her shoulder.
“What—?” she began.
But he pushed her back and behind him, toward the house’s steps as he took his big knife out from under his coat. “Get inside!”
And she saw, horribly, that the three loitering men were advancing on him. Their leader—the man with the walleye—had a knife in his hand, and there was blood on the blade.
Beatrice screamed.
“Get inside!” Lord Hope shouted again, and launched himself at the leader.
The big man lifted his bloody knife to strike the viscount. But Lord Hope caught his wrist, halting the blow, even as he slashed at the man’s belly. The leader sucked in his belly and skipped back, his shirt and waistcoat in ribbons. A second man, hatless and balding, wrapped his arms about Lord Hope from behind, imprisoning his upper arms. The walleyed man grinned and advanced to strike again. The viscount grunted and wrenched his left arm free just in time, blocking the knife with his arm. The knife blade sliced through his sleeve, and blood sprayed in a thin arc across the street.
Beatrice covered her mouth and sat suddenly on the town-house steps. Black dots swam in front of her eyes.
A man screamed and she looked up.
The balding man had fallen to the ground and was clutching his bloody side. Lord Hope was grappling with the leader again while the third man raised his dagger behind the viscount’s back.
Beatrice tried to scream a warning but couldn’t. It was as if she were in a nightmare. Her throat worked, but no sound came. She could only stare in horror.
The knife descended, but the leader stumbled back under Lord Hope’s ferocious attack, bringing the viscount with him, and the knife missed. Lord Hope suddenly whirled, dragging the leader with him, and shoved the man into the attacker behind him. Both men fell to the ground in a tangle of legs and arms. The leader was bleeding from a terrible cut to his head, and his ear appeared to be dangling.
Lord Hope straightened and advanced on the fallen men with an intent, deadly stride, like a wolf sighting a wounded hare. He wore a warlike grin as he came, savage and gleeful. His great knife was raised, its blade bloody now, too. His bared teeth were white against his swarthy skin. The men on the ground looked more civilized than he.
And then as suddenly as it’d begun, it was over. The walleyed man and his cohort scrambled to their feet, caught the third man with the bleeding side under his arms, and ducked across the street, nearly under the noses of a team of horses pulling a heavy cart. The driver yelled abuse. Lord Hope took one running step as if tempted to give chase, but then he stopped himself. He sheathed his knife with a disgusted look.
He turned to her, his expression still savage, but all Beatrice could see was his left hand, dripping blood to the ground.
“Why didn’t you go in the house?” he demanded.
She looked up dazedly. “What?”
“I gave you an order. Why the hell didn’t you follow it?”
His wound was all she could think about. She raised her own right hand to catch his. But something was wrong. Her hand was already bloody.
“Beatrice!”
She frowned at her hand, confused. “Oh, blood.”
And then the world did a dizzying spin, and she knew no more.
Chapter Nine
“I am the Princess Serenity,” the lady said as Longsword set her on her feet. “My father is the king of this land, but there is an evil witch who lives in the mountains near here. The witch told my father that if he did not pay her a yearly tribute, she would destroy him and this kingdom. My father paid the tribute last year, but this year he refused. The witch sent that dragon to steal my father and bring him to her. When I rode out with a party of knights to rescue my father, the dragon came and killed all save myself.”
Princess Serenity laid a small white hand on Longsword’s arm. “The witch will kill my father on the morrow if I do not rescue him. Will you help me?”
Longsword looked at the dead dragon, at the white hand on his sleeve, and into Princess Serenity’s sea-blue eyes, but he had decided on his answer before she had ever spoken. “I will help you. . . .”
—from Longsword
“Beatrice!” Reynaud yelled again, though he knew she couldn’t hear.
She’d fainted, slumping to her left side on the steps. A palm-sized bloodstain on her right side and back was revealed, and the sight filled him with irrational terror. He’d seen far more blood in battle—had seen horrific wounds, men without arms or legs, bodies blown apart—and not lost his composure. Yet his hands shook as he reached for her. She was as light as a child as he lifted her in his arms. He felt the wet fabric against his fingers; the blood was soaked into her skirts as well, and for a moment he froze, afraid she was dying. Her brown eyes stared up through a mask of blood, dull and lifeless. He was too late.
No. No, this woman could not die. He would not allow it.
He gripped her against his chest and turned to where she’d said the carriage was waiting. He didn’t trust this area; the attackers, whoever they were, knew he’d be here. He needed to get her away. Needed to get her to his own home. There he could guard her and tend to her, and she would be safe. He sprinted past houses, his heart thumping in his chest. She moaned and clutched his waistcoat but did not open her eyes.
There! He saw the Blanchard carriage as he turned the corner and ran toward it, yelling an order to the coachman. He saw the man’s wide eyes, the footman’s startled face, and leaped into the carriage without waiting for the steps.
“Go!” he bellowed, and the carriage lurched into motion, the coachman swearing at the horses.
He held her across his lap and looked into her face. It was flour-white, so pale that tiny freckles he’d never noticed before stood out on her cheeks. Oh, God, he would not let this happen. He brushed a lock of hair from her eyes, but his hand was bloody, and he only smeared crimson across her temple. Dammit. He needed to see how bad the wound was.
Reynaud reached under his coat and drew out his knife. The carriage swayed as they rounded a corner, and he braced himself with feet and elbows. Carefully he sliced through gown, stays, and chemise, from low on her hip to the top of the bodice, both in back and in front. He pulled the fabric away and saw the wound. It was a two-inch cut at her side just to her back, raw and ugly against the expanse of her smooth pale skin. The assassins had been aiming for him and had caught her instead as he held her in front of himself, an inadvertent shield. Fresh blood flowed clear and bright red from the wound. The fabric had stuck, and he’d reopened the wound when he’d pulled it away.
He swore softly and cut a swath from her underskirts, wadding it and pressing it against the wound. He wrapped his other arm about her shoulders and held her close to himself, her head under his chin. She was so soft, so small in his arms, and he could feel the blood soaking the wadded bandage, wetting his fingers.
“Come on,” he whispered.
Outside, houses and shops flashed by. They were making good time, but they still weren’t at his town house yet. The coachman shouted something, and the entire carriage lurched heavily. Reynaud slid across the seat, crashing into the coach’s side painfully, trying to cushion the movement with his body.
Beatrice moaned.
“Dammit. Dammit. Dammit.” He stroked her fair hair back with the hand that held her and pressed his open mouth against her forehead, whispering, “Hold on. Just hold on.”
The carriage halted, and he was standing with Beatrice in his arms before the footman had the door all the way open.
“Turn your back!” he snapped to the gawking man.
Reynaud climbed from the carriage, conscious that Beatrice was almost nude to the waist. He leaped up the town-house stairs just as the butler opened the door.
“Send for a doctor,” he told the gaping butler. “And I’ll need hot water and cloths in Miss Corning’s room at once.”
He started up the stairs but was blocked by St. Aubyn coming down.
“Beatrice!” The older man’s naturally red face paled. “What have you done to my niece?”
“She was stabbed,” Reynaud replied curtly. Only the concern in the other man’s voice kept him from knocking him aside. “Not by me.”
“Dear God!”
“Let me pass.”
St. Aubyn fell back, and Reynaud surged past him, mounting the steps as quickly as possible. Beatrice’s bedroom was two floors above. He could hear her uncle panting behind him. By the time he reached her room, the door was open and her maid was turning back the bed.
“Lord have mercy,” the woman murmured. She was a capable-looking sort, short, red-haired, and sturdy.
“Your mistress has been stabbed,” Reynaud said to her. “Help me get her gown off.”
“Now, see here!” St. Aubyn sputtered from the door. “You can’t do that!”
“She’s bleeding,” Reynaud said, low and intense. “I can hold the bandage as the maid works. Or would you rather preserve your niece’s modesty and let her bleed to death?”
St. Aubyn gulped but said nothing, his eyes fixed on Beatrice’s face.
Reynaud nodded at the maid, and St. Aubyn turned away with a mutter and closed the door as she began pulling Beatrice’s gown off. A gentleman would’ve averted his eyes, but Reynaud hadn’t been a gentleman for some time now. He watched as the maid undressed Beatrice. Her breasts were high and round, the nipples a pretty pink. The maid pulled the gown from her legs, and he stared with possession at her feminine triangle, so vulnerable, so sweet, scattered with dark gold hair. This was his woman, and he’d failed to protect her. The maid pulled the covers up over Beatrice’s breasts and one arm, leaving her right side bare so he could press the now-sodden cloth against the wound.
“Where’s the damned doctor?” he growled.
No sound had come from Beatrice’s lips as the maid had moved her. She slept deeply.
“Build the fire in the fireplace,” he ordered the maid.
“Yes, my lord.” She hurried to the fireplace and heaped coals on the embers there.
“What’s your name?” he asked her when she returned to the bed, as much to distract himself as anything else.
“Quick, my lord,” she said.
“How long have you been with your mistress?” His mind was running in circles, like a mouse trapped in a glass jar. Where was the doctor? How much blood had she lost? Was the bleeding stopped?
“Eight years, my lord,” Quick replied. “I’ve been with Miss Corning since she came out.”
“A long time, then,” he said absently. He laid the back of his hand against Beatrice’s cheek. Still warm. Still alive.
“Yes, my lord,” the maid whispered. “She’s such a gentle mistress.”
The door opened and several footmen came in with cloths and hot water. One of them was Henry, looking grave at the sight of his unconscious mistress.
“Has the doctor been sent for?” Reynaud asked him.
“Yes, my lord,” he replied. “Right away ’e was sent for, and Lord Blanchard has gone down to wait for ’im.”
Reynaud nodded. “Bring a new cloth here.”
“Will she be all right, m’lord?” Henry asked as he gave him the cloth.
