Tiger's Eye

by Karen Robards

  Damn the bitch anyway, for screaming like a banshee in the middle of the night and almost making him choke to death. He’d be damned if he’d go comfort her from any more bloody nightmares! The last time had cost him dear.

  She could scream until hell froze over!

  He wiped the drops of brandy from his chest with the flat of his hand, and ran the back of the same hand over his mouth and chin. God, he needed a shave, and a bath. He felt grimy, sticky, and out of sorts. All of which could be laid at her door.

  She was making a god-awful racket in there. From the sound of it, she was having a hell of a bad dream.

  Probably about him, Alec concluded with a jeering grin, and saluted the notion by raising the brandy bottle high before swilling down another huge mouthful.

  It was damn fine brandy. Too bad it was giving him absolutely no pleasure at all. And that was her fault, too.

  The only thing that would give him pleasure would be to rid himself of the self-righteous little vixen, preferably by putting a pillow over her face as she squalled her lungs out in the adjoining room.

  Let her go back to her murderous husband. What bloody difference did it make to him? Hell, he quite sympathized with the fellow!

  There was a great deal of thumping and bumping going on in the next room. She must be flopping all over the bed, struggling to wake up from the dream.

  Listening to the din, Alec’s scowl deepened.

  Damned noisy little bitch. Gave a man no peace.

  His eye was swollen almost shut, and it hurt like hell. He should have played her tit for tat. Although hitting a woman—even such an infuriating one as she—went against his grain. But if he ever were to succumb to the urge to commit violent mayhem on female flesh, hers would be the flesh he would start with.

  She screamed again, the sound abruptly cut off.

  Alec cursed. He would be damned if he’d let her torment him all bloody night.

  He had every right to get drunk in peace.

  His lips compressed, he nodded to himself, and got to his feet. The walls of the room seemed to recede, and Alec had to catch the chairback to steady himself.

  So far he’d done a pretty good job of drowning his sorrows. Once he got her quieted down again; he would finish the job properly.

  With luck, he’d drink himself unconscious. Oblivion was a blessedly peaceful state.

  Letting go of the chair, Alec made it to the door and fumbled for the knob, still clutching the bottle in one hand.

  As he stepped through the door, squinting into the shadowy darkness of her bedroom toward the big bed, where she seemed to be flailing about in a positive frenzy, that nagging tingle came back in full force. It was strong enough to make him take a step backwards.

  And that step backwards probably saved his life.

  A knife hurtled through the darkness out of nowhere, thunking into the doorjamb near his chest, right where his heart would have been if he hadn’t moved. For a split second Alec stared at the quivering blade wedged solidly in the wood. Then a muffled curse and the sound of feet rushing toward him told him that he was under attack.

  His mind struggled to surface through the fog of brandy that dulled it. A man loomed up out of the darkness, rushing toward him, swinging a club at his head. Alec ducked, and the club slammed harmlessly into the doorjamb.

  His mind was clouded, but his instincts were intact. Twice they had saved him.

  The man with the club swung again. Alec struck out with the only weapon he had readily to hand, the brandy bottle, crashing it into the attacker’s face. The glass broke with a tinkle, and Alec could feel the jagged edge of it slicing through soft flesh.

  The man screamed, cursing as he dropped the club and clutched at his maimed face. His other hand fumbled at his waist for what Alec did not doubt was a pistol.

  Alec dropped the bottle, which shattered with a crash on the floor. He grabbed the hilt of the knife that protruded from the doorway, wresting it from the wood just as the man jerked his hand up.…

  Before he could get off a shot, Alec lunged forward, knife in hand. The blade sank satisfyingly deep into his opponent’s belly. Even as Alec twisted it, the motion vicious and designed to gut the victim as efficiently as a fisherman might his catch, his mind was clearing enough to assimilate the true meaning of the sounds that had lured him from his cocoon of brandy.

  Isabella had not been crying out in the throes of a nightmare. She had been fighting off an attack.

  The knowledge scared him sober. Even before he had the knife properly withdrawn from the shrieking attacker’s belly, he was running for the bed.…

  He never made it. He was tackled en route, by a man big enough to knock him to the ground. Alec went skidding across the floor on his back, the knife flying from his hand to clatter across the floor. The enormous dark bulk of a man slid with him, grabbing at his legs, trying to heave himself on top of him. As Alec crashed into the wall, the man succeeded in straddling him, pinning him to the floor.

  Near the hearth now, Alec could see the silver blade of a wicked-looking knife as it was lifted high above him. He was about to have his throat slit like a slaughtered calf’s. Getting his heels beneath him, he heaved, upsetting his would-be assassin’s balance. As the blade started down, he managed to lunge to one side. The blade missed his throat by inches, slicing instead into his shoulder.

  Alec grunted with pain. The knife was withdrawn, raised again for the killing blow.…

  At that precise moment, Isabella screamed.

  The attacker’s attention was momentarily distracted, giving Alec a chance to punch ferociously upward. The blow caught the man on the chin, sending him reeling backwards while Alec grabbed the hand with the knife.

  The man fought him, and he was strong. Even at full strength, Alec would have had a hard time besting him, and Alec was not at full strength. But he was fighting for his life, and Isabella’s, and that gave him the extra impetus he needed. Bit by bit, inexorably, he brought the man’s hand down to the level of his own face. Then, in a burst of strength, Alec slammed the hand holding the knife into the raised edge of the stone hearth. The man cried out, and released his grip on the knife.

  Alec took advantage of the man’s pain to punch him in the throat, once, twice, as hard as he could from such an awkward position. The man choked, his body snapping back away from the blows. Alec used the man’s loss of center to get his heels beneath him once more and heave the attacker up and off his body.

  In seconds Alec had him pinned on his stomach on the floor and was on top of him, his own arm closing about the other’s neck.

  There was a sound at the door leading to the hall. Even as Alec registered it, the door burst open, flying back on its hinges, crashing into the wall. Alec tensed, looking at the site of this new threat with savage eyes. His arm tightened reflexively around his prisoner’s neck.

  “What the bloody ’ell …?”

  “Alec, are you all right?”

  It was Paddy, with Pearl right behind him. The fight had completely gone out of the man beneath Alec. Keeping a wary eye on him, Alec sat up and put a hand to his injured shoulder, wincing.

  “They had another go at murdering me,” he said grimly, addressing Paddy, then looked in the direction of the bed, which seemed to be empty. Fear tightened his throat. “Isabella …”

  Paddy lit a candle and held it high, illuminating the room. His other hand gripped a pistol. Pearl ran toward Alec where he sat cross-legged on the floor, breathing hard as he tried to catch his breath.

  There was no doubt that the assassination attempt had been aimed at him. But had they killed Isabella instead?

  XXIII

  “Right behind you,” Paddy said dryly. Alec turned his head to find Isabella, candlestick clutched in hand, standing motionless by the hearth.

  “Thank God,” Alec said, closing his eyes in a momentary wash of relief.

  “I couldn’t tell which one of you was which. I was afraid I would hit the wrong man,” sh
e said, her voice oddly hoarse. She dropped the candlestick with a clatter to the hearth. Then she sat down beside it, as though her knees had suddenly given out. Her head lolled forward to rest on her knees. Her hair, loosened from its braid, fell in a curtain of waves to the floor.

  “Oh, Alec, you’re bleedin’!”

  Pearl dropped to her knees at his side and dabbed at the bloody puncture in his shoulder with the hem of her extravagant nightdress.

  “I’ve had worse,” Alec said impatiently, although the blood ran down his arm and chest, and his shoulder ached. Still, he’d been in fights enough to know that the injury wasn’t mortal, not anywhere near the same degree of seriousness as the ball he’d recently taken through the chest. He had a feeling that the wooziness he was beginning to feel was more a result of the brandy he had consumed than the wound.

  “Goddamn, Alec, ’e’s dead! You broke ’is bloody neck!” Paddy, examining the man Alec had felled last, sounded disgusted. Straightening with a shake of his head, Paddy crossed to the bloody corpse blocking the entrance to the dressing room.

  “ ’Ell, you’ve done for this rotter too! ’Ow do you expect to find out who’s behind this if you keep crabbing ’em before we can question ’em?”

  Alec sat up, suffering Pearl to dab at his shoulder as he grimaced at Paddy.

  “I beg your pardon, I’m sure. Next time I have a fight to the death, I’ll try to be more careful.” Irony lay heavy in his voice, but as was usual with such nuances, it was lost on Paddy, who was going through the dead man’s pockets with a disgruntled look on his face.

  “I’ll send for Mr. ’Eath,” Pearl said.

  “The hell you will,” Alec said fiercely. Then he added more slowly, “At least, not for me. Isabella …”

  Pearl’s eyes narrowed. Isabella lifted her head from her knees. Great blue eyes met his.

  “I’m all right. Just shaken up a bit.”

  “You’re not injured in any way?” Alec asked.

  Isabella shook her head. “My throat aches a little, where he tried to strangle me, but I’m not hurt.” Her lips quivered. “Dear God, who were they, and what did they want? They weren’t after me. Were they?”

  This last was said in a tiny voice that begged for reassurance. It made Alec wish the bastards were alive so that he could kill them again.

  “ ’Tis certain they were after Alec. After all, your people all think you dead. You’re safe enough, as long as they continue to think so,” Paddy answered.

  “Do you recognize them, Paddy?” Alec asked.

  “Nah. Though there’s something about this one …” Paddy’s voice trailed off as he stared at the corpse at his feet.

  Alec’s eyes narrowed on the dead man. He was almost sure he’d never seen either of them before—but as Paddy said, there was something … “Somehow they found out I was here. But how?”

  Paddy shook his head. “No one knew where you were but Pearl and me—and the countess ’ere. We didn’t tell, and she couldn’t ’ave. Someone must ’ave seen something and gotten suspicious.”

  “I know what it was!” Pearl exclaimed. “That night she ran out into the ’all! One of the girls saw ’er, and the gent saw ’er too, and they figured out that we were using ’er to ’ide you!”

  Alec’s eyes moved to rest thoughtfully on Isabella as he considered Pearl’s theory. Paddy stared at her too. Isabella looked guilt-stricken at the mere idea. Alec quickly shook his head.

  “That’s not likely. There’s no one to connect Isabella with me. ’Tis more likely that Paddy’s been seen coming and going here more than is usual, and someone drew conclusions from that.”

  Paddy nodded. “That’s possible.”

  Pearl looked disappointed, Isabella looked relieved.

  “Well, we can puzzle it out later,” Pearl said as she got briskly to her feet. She noticed the small crowd of half-clad girls and their gents who, attracted by the commotion, had gathered in the open doorway to stare.

  “You girls go on about your business! Take your gentlemen with you! Go on now! Shoo!”

  “But Miss Pearl, all this blood …!” One wide-eyed chit with improbable red hair swept the room with her eyes, and made a distasteful moue. “What ’appened? Who’s the gents who’ve been offed?”

  “ ’Tis none of your business, is it now, Daisy? I don’t pay you—any of you—to ask questions. Gentlemen, unless you care to pass the remainder of the evening in some other establishment, I suggest you return to your entertainment. Girls, take your gents and get back to work!”

  Pearl’s threat had the effect of making the girls scatter, pulling their men with them. As they left, Alec got to his feet. His legs were a little rubbery, and blood spurted from the gash in his shoulder as he moved. He looked at the wound, disgusted.

  “Get something to tie this up with, would you, Pearl?”

  “Darlin’, let me send for the sawbones! You took quite a beatin’! Besides your arm, your eye’s all swollen! Please, Alec?”

  Her earlier ire at him was forgotten in the face of his present condition, Alec realized. Pearl really was a very good sort. So he smiled at her even as he reiterated his firm no to the sawbones. That smile did the trick. She practically cooed at him before hurrying away to get bandages and medicines.

  Paddy was busying himself with searching the bodies. With a cursory glance at him, Alec crossed to where Isabella sat huddled on the raised hearth.

  As he crouched down in front of her, her eyes met his, and a faint color stained her cheeks.

  “Let me see your throat.”

  “I’m fine. Really.”

  “Let me see.” He was insistent. The look she gave him from big, dark-shadowed eyes was inscrutable. But she obediently lifted her chin and let him see her throat. Alec winced.

  The delicate skin was scraped and red. There were three long scratches down the side of her neck where the slimy bastard’s fingernails had raked her.

  Alec felt that fierce urge to kill again as he raised a hand to touch the raw scratches. Isabella flinched.

  “Don’t touch me,” she said quietly. Her eyes were very blue suddenly. The light smattering of freckles that dusted the bridge of her delicate nose stood out more than usual against the shocked paleness of her skin. Her mouth looked slightly swollen and very soft. From his kisses, of course. Staring at those lush red lips, Alec suddenly thought how very much he wanted to kiss her again.

  Something of what he felt must have shown in his eyes, because she drew away from him.

  “Don’t ever touch me again.” Her voice was steady.

  He looked up from her mouth to meet her eyes. “Isabella …” he began, impatient to have her come off her high ropes and smile at him as she usually did. Hell, he could explain about Pearl, and if an explanation was not enough, he would even apologize. Anything to stop her from looking at him like he was something that had just crawled out from under a rock.

  “Alec, come over here! I think I recognize this chap after all!”

  Paddy’s summons interrupted him before he could put his intentions into words. His eyes flickered in Paddy’s direction with some annoyance, and his lips compressed.

  “Alec!”

  “Go on,” Isabella said, and her eyes shifted away from his. Again that fugitive wash of color stained her cheeks and receded.

  Alec cursed under his breath as he got to his feet. When he explained to Isabella all the ins and outs of the situation in which he’d found himself, he wanted to do so in privacy. And now was definitely not the time for the kind of discussion he had in mind.

  “I’m coming,” he said to Paddy, then quickly stepped to the bed and pulled the blue silk coverlet from it.

  “Wrap up in this. You look cold,” he said brusquely, dropping it around Isabella’s shoulders. She looked at him without speaking, her eyes guarded, but she did pull the coverlet around her shoulders, cocooning herself in its soft folds.

  XXIV

  Isabella pulled the blue silk coverlet closer
about her body, trying to stop herself from shaking. But with the best will in the world she could not.

  It had been, in every sense of the word, a hideous evening.

  Alec had killed two men tonight. She had known that he was capable of violence—of course, he had to be to come up as he had through London’s slum hierarchy—but somehow it had never seemed real before. Even the shootings she had witnessed when he had confronted her kidnappers had not seemed real. But this—this bloodbath was real. He had fought for his life and hers, killed two men, painted the walls and floors of her chamber with blood, and sustained a dreadful-looking wound himself. Yet he did not seem particularly shaken.

  Certainly he was not racked with remorse, or trembling with reaction as she was.

  Pearl was his mistress, yet he had bedded her, Isabella, as casually as he might change his boots. Like the violence, her surrender to him appeared to have affected him not at all.

  Which brought her to the inevitable question: Just what kind of man was Alec Tyron anyway?

  Isabella made a sound that was almost a sob under her breath.

  Giving herself to him had been a monumental act, one that would haunt her the rest of her life.

  She doubted if he would remember it by the morrow.

  That was the kind of man he was: a handsome thug, a charming brute. A user, especially of women. His easy charm was only camouflage masking the cold steel of the man beneath.

  Witness how he had dispatched the two would-be assassins: with utter ruthlessness. And in bedding her without any emotion save lust, he had displayed the same ruthlessness.

  Tears began to fill her eyes. Isabella closed them tightly, willing herself not to cry. She was not the first woman to make a fool of herself over a man. And she would not be the last.

  Despite her best efforts, a tear forced its way past her closed lids, rolled down her cheek. Without making a sound she huddled on the hearth, blue silk coverlet wrapping her to her chin, face buried in her knees so that no one would see the tears streaking her cheeks.

  “There, now, angel, you’ve got no cause to cry.”