The Lady's Guard (Sinful Brides Book 3)

by Christi Caldwell

  So, this was the reason for Ryker’s request. To interrogate. Fucking Killoran. A dull heat climbed up Niall’s neck, and with a curse he tossed his cheroot down and ground it under the heel of his boot. “He has a sister. It was useful information to obtain.” The owner of the Devil’s Den, in entering their hell to get forth a message and wreak more havoc on the club, had proven more courageous than Niall had credited. Or bloody stupid. It was all the same.

  His brother went motionless. “Ya threatened the man’s sister?”

  Niall jutted his chin and held mutinously silent. He’d make no apologies. He’d acted when the others should have.

  Ryker let loose a stream of curses in an uncharacteristic lack of control. “Goddamn it, Niall. We do not threaten women. We aren’t Diggory and his henchmen.” He slashed the air with his cheroot, the slender lit scrap flickering in the dark.

  “He is threatening everything we’ve built.” Their security. Their safety. Peace. All of it could be gone, and then what became of them? Black, with his viscountcy and lands, would live on in wealth and relative peace. Niall, Calum, Adair, and everyone else dependent upon them faced destruction.

  His brother said nothing for a long while, and then: “His threat is against our club. He wants our members,” Ryker concurred. “But we do not descend into the level of evil they do. We do not threaten women and children.” Fury frosted his eyes as he took another pull from his cheroot. He exhaled a round ring. “Am I clear?” As clear as a moonlit night. He’d not have his orders on this gainsaid.

  Since he’d been beaten like a dog into submission, Niall had chafed at being made to obey. It had taken a brotherhood of men and women who’d suffered those same hells to break him free from the snarling, snapping boy always spoiling for a fight. With a man’s logic, however, he saw the necessity of obeying commands that were for the good of the group. Niall nodded tightly.

  His brother finished his cheroot and crushed it under his boot. “They found Penelope’s assailants.”

  At that again abrupt shift, Niall jerked erect.

  Ryker glanced away, but not before Niall detected the spasm that contorted his face. The recent attack that had nearly seen his wife dead. After he’d been cornered in the streets, Penelope had paid the price of a blade to her side. In the end, both blighters had escaped. “Who?” he demanded. He’d had one on the ground underneath him, and the useless constable had lost his hold on the man. Or, more likely, he’d been in the pocket of the gang leader.

  “They weren’t Killoran’s men,” Ryker explained. “After Diggory’s murder there was a split. Some challenged Killoran as the replacement. Sought to carry out revenge for Diggory.”

  Niall put those pieces together. Living in the streets, there was always a struggle for power when one’s leader went down. “How do you—?”

  “Killoran paid a visit.”

  They were the wrong words. They were gentlemanly ones that conjured an image of polite lords meeting over brandies and cigarillos. Killoran entering their home hinted at darkness and danger.

  Niall curled his hand into a tight fist.

  That spawn of Satan had entered the Hell and Sin, and Niall had been in the Mayfair District playing chaperone to Diana, kissing her crimson-stained lips, following her through the parks, sitting down to tea and pastries. And worse, he’d enjoyed every single damned moment in her presence. A ball of shame lodged in his throat, and he forced words past it. “Wot did ’e want?”

  “A blood truce.” Ryker held his gaze. “A pledge that the feud will continue between the clubs, but that our families and employees will be safe through it.”

  Niall’s mouth moved. One would have to be dicked in the nob to trust a pledge made by Broderick Killoran. “And you believe that?” His incredulity rang loud in the nighttime quiet.

  Ryker gave a brusque nod. “I do.”

  Fueled by his fury, Niall stalked away from that hard stare. “And yet he’ll continue to bring fights and instability to our club,” he seethed.

  Ryker leveled him with a glacial stare. “Killoran said that was a token of your visit, and any further such visits will be paid in kind.” There was a wealth of weight behind that barely veiled charge.

  Niall whistled through his teeth. He’d underestimated the miserable sod. Bold as you please, not only had Killoran entered the Hell and Sin, but he’d also used Niall’s words and actions to paint him black before his brothers and employees. Restless, he withdrew another cheroot and lit it against a nearby lamp. Taking a long, deep pull, he allowed it to flood his lungs. He exhaled slowly.

  The gravel crunched under Ryker’s heavy boot, indicating he’d moved.

  “Take some consolation.” Still thrumming with a restless fury, Niall inhaled from his cheroot once more. “You return tomorrow.” And he choked on the mouthful of smoke. His shoulders shook at the sudden paroxysm, and tears stung his eyes. Leave? Of course, the obvious course. The assailants caught and a pledge reached with Killoran, there would no longer be a need for Diana to traipse about London with Niall’s scarred self for company, and yet the oddest panic pounded away at his chest.

  Ryker eyed him peculiarly. “Are you all right?”

  “Inhaled wrong,” he muttered, when he could coherently string a reply together. Which was rot. He hadn’t choked over a cheroot since he’d taken his first pull as an orphan in the streets. “Ya don’t think it’s a risk for her to be without a guard?”

  His brother proceeded to tick off on his fingers the very details Niall had already silently cataloged. “Killoran vowed a truce. Your and Penelope’s assaulters have been apprehended, and the men working with them, as well.” It was, of course, sufficient reason to abandon his post inside Diana Verney’s household.

  So why did the prospect of returning to the hell leave an odd, aching hollow inside his chest? It was because she was the only person who’d treated Niall as anything other than a ruthless thug from the street. Even his brothers saw him as a crass, merciless bastard to guard and protect, but not much more than that. Which is how Niall should want it. He’d spent a lifetime building himself into that pitiless Lord of the Underbelly.

  Didn’t he?

  “You’re certain?” he demanded gruffly, attempting to set his thoughts to right.

  Ryker rolled his shoulders. “Has there been an attack or hint of one since you’ve been assigned her?” It was a methodical inquiry from a man who’d tasked Niall with an assignment more than a concerned question posed by a brother. Niall’s teeth set painfully in his mouth. Not a soul was loyal to Diana Verney.

  He shook his head once.

  “Then there is your answer.” Ryker pulled out his watch fob and consulted the time. “Penelope will be looking for me.” He tucked the metal chain back in his pocket, but lingered.

  For a fraction of a moment, Niall thought Ryker might put a request for more time assigned to Diana. But then . . . “We’ll be hosting a dinner party.”

  At the abrupt shift in discourse, Niall cocked his head. “A dinner party?” Ryker Black avoided ton events at all costs.

  “Penelope is of a mind that Diana should be introduced to prospective suitors,” his brother explained. Those casually spoken words hit Niall like a kick to the gut. Black fixed him with a piercing look. “With you gone and Wilkinson . . . distracted, she’ll benefit from a husband.”

  A muscle jumped at the corner of his right eye. Why in blazes was he telling him this? “Penelope believes that? Or you?” The question came fast and sharp, before he could call it back. Niall didn’t want to know that after he’d gone there’d be a bloody fancy gent about.

  “Me.” Ryker consulted his timepiece once more. He pocketed it and then held Niall’s gaze. “Thank you,” he said, with his usual somberness. “I know you hate this world as much as I do.” More so. “Thank you for entering it anyway and verifying that Diana was unharmed.”

  He’d thank him.

  An assignment completed.

  A job well done.
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br />   Niall stared after Ryker’s tall retreating figure long after he’d gone, finishing the remainder of his cheroot.

  I am going home.

  And for the first time since he’d damned Ryker for forcing this assignment on him, he damned him all over again for yanking it so swiftly away.

  Chapter 13

  For all intents and purposes, the night had been a resounding success. Her father had been smiling, truly smiling, for the first time in a year. Diana had established a tentative friendship with her sister-in-law—a sister-in-law whose wedding Diana hadn’t been invited to, but who’d tonight extended an invitation to a small soiree she and Ryker would host at the end of the Season. It was the mark of a new beginning with her family.

  Even the ton hadn’t been wholly disdainful. She’d danced several sets. One with Lord Maxwell. Another with Lady Penelope’s brother-in-law, Lord Christian St. Cyr. Of course, both sets had been carefully coordinated by the viscountess so Diana didn’t find herself relegated to the wall for the entire evening.

  And all Diana could focus on was one singular detail: Niall had not inspected her room.

  Unable to sleep, Diana sat with her knees drawn to her chest at the upholstered window seat that overlooked the quiet London streets. The full moon’s pale glow periodically peeked out through the heavy hang of cloud cover to bathe the cobblestones in a soft light.

  He’d not even accompanied her to her chambers.

  For the first time since Niall had been assigned Diana’s guard, he’d not done his methodical, detailed search of her rooms and then stalked off with the stealth and silence of a London pickpocket and nothing more than a curt “Night.”

  Rather, they’d returned from Lord and Lady Milford’s with him trailing at a sizable distance and then disappearing down the guest corridors where he kept his rooms.

  Setting the forgotten book down on the bench, she dropped her chin atop her knees and rubbed back and forth over the soft fabric of her white nightshift. Niall Marksman was not a man to forsake his duties. It went against the fierce guard who’d taken up position at Lady Milford’s ballroom, like he was the head of the King’s Army leading his men into battle.

  It did not make sense.

  Unless he was leaving. Then it made complete sense. She stopped her distracted movements as the niggling possibility that had taken root upon their arrival two hours earlier grew. Mayhap he’d decided after all that he wished his freedom. Mayhap . . .

  The softest tread of footsteps from out in the hall cut across the early morn quiet. Her heart skittered a beat as all the terror of those gaping doors and windows and broken axles stirred to life once more. Forgotten terror. Terror she’d not so much as given thought to since Niall had entered this household to oversee her safety.

  Biting the inside of her cheek, she quickly reached back and silently loosed the ring that held the curtain. She caught her breath as the heavy satin fluttered into place.

  Do not be a dunderhead. You’re making monsters out of shadows, just as your father accused.

  No doubt it was only a servant snuffing the candles before retiring for the early morn hours.

  A floorboard groaned, and she bit the inside of her cheek hard. Scrunching herself against the wall, she sought to meld with it. She trained her ears for a hint of sound. The longcase clock ticked inordinately loudly, emphasizing the thick hum of quiet. Diana concentrated on those marked seconds passing, and with each beat, when no enemy yanked back the curtain and exposed her hiding, some of the tension slowly slipped from her frame.

  “You are being silly,” she silently mouthed. Niall had been right to his doubts. What harm could anyone wish her? Her connection to Ryker was at best distant and worst nonexistent. As such, she could never be used as a pawn to hurt him, or anyone. Even her own father had ceased to see her. Logic restored, Diana angled her head enough to peek through the crack in the curtain.

  She swallowed a cry, suppressing it with her fingertips.

  The candle’s eerie glow played off the stark white fabric of a gentleman’s shirt. She blinked slowly.

  A tall gentleman.

  A very tall gentleman.

  A familiar one with impossibly broad shoulders and corded muscles better fitting a prize fighter.

  Niall? she silently mouthed.

  There could not, however, be any mistaking that form. At some point he’d abandoned his crimson jacket and stood in nothing more than his burgundy front-fall breeches, white shirtsleeves, and boots. Her fingers twitched with the need for her paintbrush—a need to capture him as he was, unaware, his back to her, focused on one of her many paintings. Diana inched forward, and, holding her breath, she dipped her head daringly around the curtain. Her breath lodged in her lungs. There was something so very intimate about being near a man—nay, near this man—with his waistcoat, cravat, and coat sleeves abandoned. The fine fabric of his cotton shirt played off the muscles of his back.

  She should announce herself. Should have done so the minute he’d entered the room. And she most certainly shouldn’t be spying on him unawares.

  He moved, and, her heart climbing into her throat, she ducked back into hiding. Diana pressed her eyes closed and silently prayed that he’d not discovered her here spying like a naughty child. The floorboards creaked, and she shrank against the wall.

  Another stretch of silence descended, and, holding her breath, she looked around the edge of the curtain.

  She silently cursed.

  Niall had moved on to another easel, but he remained unmoving, unwilling to give up his place in her parlor. An aromatic trace of smoke tinged her nostrils. Diana silently whiffed the air. Curiosity pulled her back for another glimpse.

  Arms folded at his chest, Niall periodically raised a small cheroot to his lips and took a deep pull.

  She cocked her head. When she’d been a girl, she’d often curled in the side of her father’s leather button sofa while he attended his ducal business. Oftentimes with a small, carved wood pipe clenched between his teeth. Until mother had discovered them that day. Seething and fuming, she’d delivered a stinging lecture to both Diana and her husband for daring to do something so plebeian as to smoke. Inside their sacred home, no less. It was the last time Diana was allowed to wander without a nursemaid closely following, and the last she’d had a trace of that fragrant tobacco—until now. What would her mother say if she could see this man born of the streets, in her parlor, guarding her daughter, and now leaving a trail of cheroot ashes and smoke about? Given her crimes, it seemed fitting and right that even this aspect of the duchess’s world should so collapse.

  “Are you intending to sleep on that seat?”

  Niall’s low baritone rumbled around the parlor. Diana gasped and pitched sideways. She quickly caught the edge, saving herself from tumbling out from behind her hiding place—her less-than-impressive hiding place.

  Her skin went hot with humiliation, and she briefly cast her gaze to the window’s small hook latch. It couldn’t be more than—she peered out into the dark and sighed—thirty feet. Alas, she was many things: impulsive, given to prattling. But she was not a coward.

  With another sigh, Diana shoved the curtain wide. “You knew I was here the whole while?” She swung her legs over the side of the bench, and her night skirts settled softly about her ankles. The blighter. Though she couldn’t determine if she was angrier with him for having found her, or herself for being hopelessly unable to do something as simple as hide.

  His lips quirked in one corner, dimpling his scarred cheek, lending a gentleness to him when he was only ever hard and menacing. “It’s my job to hear and see everything, love.” Love. It was nothing more than a casual, toss-away endearment, and yet it was as though a thousand butterflies had been set free in her belly and celebrated that freedom by dancing wildly about. “If a man doesn’t hear the person sneaking, he ends up with a slit throat and a blade in his belly.”

  His stark words tossed an ominous chill over the room. She shivered a
nd huddled deeper inside her wrapper. What must his life have been like? Again, she touched her eyes on those scars. Badges of honor that marred his face. She wondered who’d brought him pain and hated that he’d ever known such suffering. Shame filled her for having been a wholly self-absorbed lady who’d not considered the plight of others. “You know something about that?” she asked needlessly, torn between never wanting to know and needing to.

  He took another pull from his cheroot and slowly exhaled. “Oi know a lot about that,” he said gruffly, slipping back into that guttural Cockney. And yet, with the vagueness to that reply, he kept her out. Was it to protect himself? Or did he, like everyone else, believe Diana too weak to know the truth of the world around her?

  She watched him as he smoked, enthralled by his smooth, damn-the-world ease. Soon he would leave, and who Niall Marksman was or had been, or would one day be when Diana was gone and languishing in Bedlam, did not matter. Or it should not. He was just another transient person moving in and out of her life. Not vastly different from her own parents or the suitors who’d once visited this very room. But in the three weeks they’d spent together, he’d become an inextricable part of her life. The one person who’d spoken plainly to her and not treated her as though she was a duke’s daughter who should be pampered for it, but oddly how little she knew about him. “Is that how you came by them?”

  He arched an eyebrow.

  “Your”—she motioned to his right cheek—“scars.”

  As if they were chatting over tea and speaking of mundane matters like the weather, he tipped the ashes of his cheroot into a nearby vase. “Sometimes.”

  In his laconic reply, he could not make clearer his desire for Diana’s silence.

  Diana pushed slowly to her feet but was unable to force movement into her limbs. “Did that happen often to you?” she persisted, wanting, before Niall Marksman left, to tear down some of the walls and understand who he was. “Did men try to steal from you?” A heartbreaking image slid forth of Niall as a boy with a mop of black curls and fearful blue eyes, fighting for his life as someone tried to lift from him the few possessions he’d then had.