Light of My Heart

by Elizabeth St. Michel

  Three-Tooth sneered. He was the furthest thing from Gus, convulsing with spasms. Definitely unstable. His eyes were like hot coals buried in snow and his lower lip hung down his chin as if pulled between here and London, and then snapped back. “What is option two?”

  “I recommend option one.”

  Both men looked at each other, and then at Anthony. “You’re a raving lunatic. But because you are so polite and entertaining, we’ll end your life quick with a bullet to the head,” said Gus.

  Two against one was never a problem. Except he had Rachel to consider. Three-Toothhe’d take down first. Guslike chopping down an oak tree. Where would he start? An incoming elbow to his throat? A short left to the back of the kidney?

  Rachel whispered. “They have guns.” She dipped her eyes to the log. Her reckonings on par with his. Good.

  “Yeah. We have guns,” Gus said which gave Anthony a glimmer of hope because Rachel likely reminded the pair that they had guns. Hard as it was to suffer their stupidity, Anthony felt sorry for them. Unfortunately, their lack of intelligence bolstered their confidence.

  “Hand over the goods. My gun hand is getting jumpy,” Gus instructed.

  “Wait,” said Three-Tooth. “He hasn’t told us option two.”

  Definitely hereditary. Anthony assessed the likelihood that the mother was the sister of their father. He’d bet his laboratory that the event was not random, even up the ante, by tossing in his bank account. A useless gamble, no return on his wager.

  Anthony sighed. “Option twoyou don’t get hurt.”

  Gus choked on his drool. Triple-Tooth snickered. Anthony sidestepped once more. Not that he wanted to get away from the stench of unwashed bodies, and rum, but wanted a clear path over the tree before he made his move.

  Rachel shrieked. “I told you that we shouldn’t have gone to town today. First, I was thrown over a cliff, and now I’m robbed at gunpoint. This is all your fault. What can I expect from a half-witted, addlepated fool? Why I should tar and feather you.”

  What the hell was she doing?

  On and on she went, throwing all kinds of epitaphs on his person. Enough to make a sailor blush and…to distract the highwaymen. Smart girl.

  “The lady has it in for you.” Gus snorted, his best imitation of a laugh.

  Anthony turned to her. “Rachel, what do you think of a tangent of a thirty-degree angle in repose, and then mathematically expressed by mass equaling force times distance?” he asked, raising the stakes on her ruse.

  She edged toward the raised part of the log, and shook her fist at him. “Only a buffoon would ask me that. Based on Archimedes principal where the force applied at the end points of the lever is proportional to the ration of the length of the lever measured between the fulcrum and application point of the force applied to that end.”

  Three-Tooth scratched his lice. “What’s she talking about?”

  She hiked her skirts to her knees. Anthony swallowed, forced himself to think. The highwaymen’s mouths dropped open, engaged with her lovely legs.

  Right where Anthony wanted them.

  Three things happened simultaneously. Rachel jumped on the high part of the log. Her full weight and inertia pitched the opposite end with enough force to throw back the highwaymen. Guns sailed into the air. A pistol fired, the ball colliding with the treetops, showering a spray of splinters and twigs. Anthony sprang over the debris, hit the gaping Three-Tooth in the mouth. His teeth went flying. The runt of the litter crumpled into the leaf mold. Three-Tooth would have to be renamed. One-Tooth was more appropriate.

  Gus came at him, eyes wild, launching a right. Anthony ducked, the buzz swept over his head. Gus’s momentum carried him in a curve, his kidney exposed for the taking. Easy enough, a question of force, the product of mass times velocity squared. Anthony hit a short right, a colossal blow, a blow that would have cracked a stable beam. Gus stumbled and bent viciously backward from the force of the punch, the breath whooshing out of him. No doubt, the shock hitting the back of his lungs like a million tiny needles, heated red-hot in a fire. He tottered, and his right leg went stiff.

  He didn’t fall like a normal person. No, a normal person would have been ready to be buried six feet under. Instead, he trembled like aspen leaves in the wind, then, grinning the hulk of a man righted himself and lunged. Apparently, rum numbed his pain, and emboldened his attack. Anthony smashed his fist into Gus’s jaw, but his foot slipped in the mud. Not like boxing in the barn with a solid floor beneath his feet. As he straightened, Gus slammed a punch to Anthony’s chest, the force enough to knock a horse into paralysis. He gasped and whooped, his lungs collapsing. Gus swung another right and left, but Anthony raised his fists batting off the jabs. He ducked and danced to the side, and then advanced, unleashing the full force of his blows. Two, four, six jabs. His adversary breathed hard his gloating grin faded, blood poured from his mouth.

  “I thought you said you could fight,” Anthony taunted.

  Gus roared after Anthony head on, landing savage thrust after thrust of his fists. Anthony recovered with a swift, sudden spin borne of instinct. Gus backhanded Anthony across the forehead. Breathing hard, drifting in a fog, Anthony kept punching…survival…he hammered Gus again and again…and the guy was still standing.

  He who has the higher ground is the victor. Sun Tzu, an ancient Chinese warlord advised his military leaders to take the higher ground and let the enemy attack from the vulnerability of a lower position. Must force Gus to the ground.

  Dizzy and losing his balance, Anthony spun, smashed his heel into the kneecap of Gus’s good leg, felt the bone crack through his boot. Like Bonneville, the Goliath went down, too…but then, his big hands clawing at the earth, Gus raised up crawling toward Anthony…one last attempt. Anthony tried to shake the cobwebs from his head, rubbed the dirt from his eyes and clenched his fists, but Gus was almost upon him. And then…the giant slumped face forward into the mud.

  Anthony wiped the blood from his mouth…and did a double take. Like an Amazon goddess, Rachel stood poised over Gus, a rock in her hand, ready to strike again.

  “Enough of you two playing games.”

  Anthony cleared his head and stood, tipped his toe against the big man’s body. Unconscious. “Games? I’m lucky I’m not fodder for the worms.” The dog yipped at his feet and Anthony bent down to pat the beast’s head.

  He angled his head to the rock she dropped. “So primitive.” Anthony remarked drily. “Too bad you didn’t have your bow and arrow.”

  “I have been reduced to rocks. And if you say, ‘how typical for a Colonial,’ I’ll hit you with a rock.”

  “We need to tie them up. Can you spare your petticoat?”

  “Turn around,” she ordered him.

  With reluctance, he let go and presented his back, remembering long perfect legs. “Where has the sudden modesty come from? I seem to recall you hiking your skirts up”

  “That was a distraction and you know it was. And if you ever tell anyone, I’ll”

  “Hit me with a rock. I’ll shall tremble in my boots from the thought.”

  “You can turn around now.”

  After tearing her petticoat in strips, she instructed him on impressive sailor’s knots, foolproof in securing their assailants.

  She stopped a few steps away from him, gazing at him in fear and confusion, as if she wanted to come the rest of the way, but couldn’t. He took the last few steps, enclosed her in his arms, trying to ignore the incredible feel of her crushed against him. He wanted to kiss her but she was trembling so violently that he was afraid to knowing her history. Instead, he just held her with her face cradled against his chest and slowly stroked her long, lustrous hair. Rivulets of sweat and blood poured down his temple and his jaw hurt like hell, but all felt right with the world.

  “You saved my life again. You make me feel protected.”

  In that moment, he found a thousand things that he loved about her.

  Very slowly and gently, Anthony lifte
d her chin and kissed her. He kissed her long and lingering, with all the aching tenderness in his heart, and she laid her trembling fingers against his cheek and began to kiss him back.

  Her soft lips parted with only the slightest urging from his probing tongue into her mouth, and then she gave him hers. He teased her, tormented her, offered himself to her by thrusting deep with his tongue, then retreating and thrusting again and again, until Rachel was clinging to him, her mouth moving back and forth over his in passionate surrender to the wild, erotic kiss.

  Shivering and tentative, she pressed her form into him, his jacket that she wore, opened and her full breasts flattened against the wet silk of his shirt. Shyly, she moved her hands up his chest, and without guile, her fingers continued upward until they stroked the dark hair at his nape. Stunned by the force of the need pulsating through his blood, he had to stop this madness before it went any further, before he pinned her to the mud like a beast. Rachel was his sister’s friend. Stop. Now.

  Growling from deep in his throat, he tore his mouth away and stared into her passion-drugged eyes. “I have to end this before I do something I regret.” He touched her cheek with his forefinger, tracing the elegant curve of her cheekbone. How he adored her spirit, her freshness. She was warmth and awakening passion, headstrong and sweet, loyal, intelligent and witty. His pearl beyond price.

  The rumble of a wagon, thundering around the bend caused them both to turn. The dog snapped at the wagon’s wheels until the driver braked his team. It was one of his father’s trusted tenants.

  “Lord Anthony? Heard a gunshot.” He narrowed his eyes at their tied-up quarry. “Glad I wasn’t at the end of those fists of yours. Happy I came along. I imagine you’ll want help, throwing them in the back and a ride home.”

  Chapter Twelve

  The horrid events of the past few hours surfaced a new kind of panic. That she had revealed the secret of her near defilement to Anthony. That he had kissed her. Suddenly she wanted to dive beneath the covers of her bed, plant a pillow over her head and force out the chaos surrounding her. Pretending that she had no time for emotion, for grief, for guilt, for responsibility, only the crisis facing the Rutlands to block the dissonance of her thoughts.

  If that could ever happen.

  She had taken a bath, changed into a clean dress, and now welcomed the radiating warmth of a stoked fire in the library to thaw out her bones. Aunt Margaret snored in a wingback chair. To tuck her toes beneath her skirts and join Anthony’s charming aunt had appeal for she was barely able to keep her eyelids open.

  “The highway men are being questioned. One of my hired guards was a former army sergeant and very good at convincing them that the accuracy of their truth is critical,” said the Duke, his voice firm and solid.

  “I don’t think you will get much out of them,” said Anthony. “They didn’t seem to know about the carriage, but maybe they witnessed something that might prove helpful.”

  “What did the man in the village who accosted you look like?”

  The Duke pulled Rachel from her musings. Adding details, she’d forgotten, she restated his description. “He had a skeletal face and his body seemed wasted away, red cap, a coarse Simian nose that sniffed every which way for wandering odors, moist black eyes that protruded out of pouched pockets and darted all over the place.”

  Anthony nodded, his aquiline jaw working in frustrated circles as though chewing on a thought. “Any of your tenants who fit that description?” he asked his father.

  “Not one that I can think of,” said the Duke. “I will have someone investigate.”

  “Could it be” Rachel pulled Anthony back to the past.

  “Interesting,” Anthony nodded.

  “I’m not following,” said the Duke.

  “A relative of Percy Devol, the man who had kidnapped Abby?” Anthony explained. “You think the culprit who sawed the axle”

  “Sure…strangely and” She stopped short, his meaning registered. “Killed your assistant?”

  “It would explain a lot,” Anthony said. “I’ve been thinking of the precision of the carriage axle being sawed…how long it had taken, over rough roads, someone had timed it before, practiced it even.

  Puzzled by this last point…how long had it taken, Rachel asked, “And where did the coach driver go? What about the stable master?”

  “The stable master was found tied up in the back of the stables,” said Anthony’s father. He received a whack on the head and was out cold. He didn’t see or hear anyone.”

  The butler came into the room followed by a footman with trays of hot tea, scones, sandwiches and a large plate of cream puffs. Dreaming of the delicate pastry, Rachel eyed the arranged plate, her stomach rumbling with an unladylike sound. She groaned. Even a crumb would be a feast.

  “As you wished.” A sliver of knowing mischief slipped into his smile, and her heart increased in tempo.

  The footman poured her tea into a delicate china cup, the loveliest shade of cobalt blue and bordered with a bright gold.

  When the footman finished serving, the Duke nodded for his dismissal.

  Sebastian, the butler closed the doors and returned.

  “Please tell us what you have learned, Sebastian,” said Anthony’s father.

  “Your Grace, there is not much we were able to get from the highwaymen. They are East Londoners, had nothing to do with the carriage accident, or George’s demise. The sergeant was very thorough. The territory they employed for their nefarious business dealings in East London proved competitive, forcing them to search new and available pickings, on your estate. The ill-fated circumstance was that they ran into Lord Anthony. No one local would have taken on his lordship.”

  “Thank you for your confidence, Sebastian,” said Anthony.

  Rachel agreed. Anthony could fight. That savage masculine face, all angles and cleverness and startling blue eyes. Handsome except for the black and blue bruises that swelled, both repugnant and compelling. The odds set against him, outgunned and outmanned, and how he had dispatched themthis Anthony was not the man she had met before. A thrill of danger brushed her spine, and at the same time, she squelched the urge to sit next to him and comfort him. He nudged a crystal dish of butterscotch pudding toward her.

  She stared at his beautiful face and beautiful lips. Magic and wonder all rolled into one. What would you do Lord Anthony if I kissed you?

  “The guards caught a man in the trees bordering the castle, but he was here to see one of the housemaids,” Sebastian added.

  “I’ll alert the tenants to keep their eyes and ears open, post more guards. With this situation, none of us are safe,” growled the Duke.

  Rachel took her first bite of the buttery sweet pudding that melted in a mélange of spices on her tongue. She couldn’t help but savor the confectionary taste of what had looked like an unassuming dish. “We arrive at the same deduction then.”

  “Meaning?” Anthony cocked his head, and Rachel could sense the wheels turning. He shifted his gaze to her lips, and then back to her, his eyes wide. “You think”

  “Meaning that it confirms our conclusions of someone with influence and a lot of money is involved.”

  He dropped three cream puffs on her plate.

  Rachel stared at him like he’d lost his mind. She picked up a cream puff and took a bite. An errant pearl of white cream escaped and she chased it back into her mouth with the tip of her finger. Anthony caught her breach in etiquette. The lighting in his eyes went from grey to deep blue. Her stomach erupted in a flurry of moths, raining memories of the way he’d reached for her in the carriage and kissed her and then again right after they had been held-up by the highwaymen. Like a man in the desert who reaches for water. She liked that thirst.

  “The dog has been given a bath, fed and resides in the stable. She is happy in her new home.” Rachel melted. Anthony had given her a little bit of sunshine and hope in a world of shadow and pain. She breathed easier since she had confessed to Anthony of her pa
st and felt better because of the declaration. This interlude in time she would always remember and wanted to savor.

  He shrugged. “It seemed appropriate.”

  Aunt Margaret sat up and blinked. “I must have fallen asleep. You two look so tired. You should retire.”

  Rachel needed no prodding, swaying as she stood.

  Anthony rose to steady her, “I believe we have exhausted everything there is to say. I will escort, Miss Thorne upstairs.”

  *

  Sebastian peeked through the doors, and then closed them. “They are upstairs, Your Grace.”

  The Duke raised his brandy snifter, rolled the amber liquid around in the crystal. “Do you think the romance is advancing?”

  Aunt Margaret tilted her grey head. “Of course it is. Didn’t you see how Miss Thorne darted glances at Anthony like she wanted to get up and fuss over his bruises? Didn’t you see how Anthony insisted on escorting her upstairs as if she were the most precious thing in the world?”

  The Duke reared, thunderstruck. “I missed that.”

  She looked down her nose. “Most men would, so don’t feel left out.”

  Sebastian coughed.

  “Have you worked out a deal with Miss Thorne to build her invention?” Margaret demanded.

  Wasn’t he the Duke? How Aunt Margaret loved to command. She still thought of him in his nappies, yet he had to admit, her battle instincts were inspiring andremarkable. “I engaged her to do the job as a quid pro-quo for the wardrobe, but keeping them apart, how can we keep the attraction going?”

  “Thought blackmail beneath you, Richard. You have surprised me with your resourcefulness.” With all the benevolence in the world, she gave him a firm nod.

  Should he genuflect?

  “To answer your question, the mysteries of attraction cannot be explained through logic.”