by Sharon Page
She couldn’t turn. For some reason, her body refused to twist so she could see. Her heart hammered and her jumbled thoughts coalesced into one command: Run. You must run!
Despite a throat so dry she couldn’t draw in air, Anne yanked up her skirts and ran like the wind. It had to be her imagination haunting her. It had to be one of Devon’s servants—
No. A servant wouldn’t laugh.
She needed a weapon. Anything. A fallen branch. A rock—but she couldn’t see one she could lift. The heavy footsteps behind her drew closer.
She gave a surge of desperate speed, but it wasn’t enough. A black shape swept in front of her eyes. She tried to dart away, but her feet tangled in her hems, and her momentum carried her headlong into a leather-clad hand. Her attacker clamped his palm over her mouth. She was dragged off her feet, hauled through the air, and slammed back against a tree. Her breath flew out as her spine banged against unyielding bark. Pain shot from her head to her toes.
She screamed, but the gloved hand turned her shriek into a muffled squawk.
A hulking body loomed over her. “Hello, Annie love,” the voice said cheerfully. “You caused me a lot of bother.”
She gazed up at a familiar leering grin. She saw a bald head, a beak of a nose, a huge body. It couldn’t be possible. By some nightmare, it was. Shaking, she met the narrow black eyes of Mick Taylor, Madame Sin’s bodyguard.
“Don’t you think you now have the truth?” Tristan demanded. “She’s wanted for murder and she’s bolted. It must mean she’s guilty.”
Devon scrubbed his hand over his jaw. He was carrying his damned cane, and he chucked it to the floor. His gut instincts told him Cerise was the murderess—it would explain her fear, her reluctance to speak of her past, her lies, her flight out into the night. And her story of the rescued innocents matched the motive for the madam’s murder, according to Miss Lacy. “I think she did kill the woman, but I suspect she did it in self-defense.” He could not picture Cerise, who had been so careful cutting his hair, so sweet when she read to him, so gentle with his nephew, as a cold-blooded murderess.
“You’re smitten with her, aren’t you?” Tris asked, his tone filled with astonishment. Tris handed him the cane.
Smitten. He was not smitten. Smitten was for virgin lads and aging codgers, not for angry dukes and their runaway mistresses. He was trying to be logical. “If the woman was a desperate criminal, she could have stolen from me the first night she was here and gotten enough money to flee the country.” He swung his stick and began walking. “Take me to the stables.”
“The stables?” The shocked voice belonged to Treadwell.
“I’m not going to stay here like a bloody invalid, waiting for her to be brought back to me. I want the truth out of her.”
Anne was amazed she hadn’t fractured into a thousand pieces—she felt as cold and brittle as ice. Mick shifted his hand, freeing her mouth, but he gripped her by the throat, pressing hard enough to keep her pinned without blocking all her air.
“It took me a bleeding long time to find you, Annie,” he remarked lightly. She had spent five years living in fear of this man. She had seen exactly what kind of brutality he could commit. When Mick spoke in such a cheerful voice, it meant he planned to inflict pain.
He had pulled her into the middle of a grove of trees. The thick trunks surrounded them. He could do anything to her he wanted here. He could leave her body beneath a pile of leaves and no one might know for days.
“How—how did you find me?” Her voice came as a raw whisper. But a grin spread across Mick’s face, and understanding came so swiftly, she sagged in despair. The pressure of his hand was the only thing holding her up. “Kat.”
“That’s right.” His lips curled. “Eventually I convinced your whore friend to tell me.”
Tears stung in her eyes. Nausea threatened to crawl up her throat. “What did you do to her?”
“Not much, love. Your friend crumbled quickly. Just a few slaps to her pretty face and she told me everything.”
“I don’t believe it. Kat wouldn’t have done that. You must have hurt her badly.”
“I intended to, duchess,” he said mockingly. “But she’s a cowardly little fool, so afraid of having her face and her tits carved up, she broke down after the first time I hit her.”
Perhaps Kat did. Anne prayed it was the truth, that Kat had surrendered quickly rather than suffer a brutal beating. This was all her fault. She had brought danger to a friend who had given her nothing but kindness.
“I imagine she thought I’d back away once she revealed you were a duke’s tart. But I’m not afraid of some fop.”
Anne thought of Devon—the rough-hewn muscle, the strength, and the aura of rigidly controlled power that surrounded him. Mick might be brawny, but she did not doubt Devon would have been able to defeat him in a fight—if he could see. “The duke is a war hero,” she spat out. “Hardly a fop.” The insanity of it struck her. Devon had locked himself away here because he thought he was mad. He had refused to go home, because he feared he could be a danger to his family. And here was a truly deadly madman, who would never have such scruples.
“He ain’t here, Annie. It’s just you and me. I watched the house for a couple of days, waiting to nab you. Damned uncomfortable it was. I thank you for delivering yourself into my hands, but you’re going to have to do more to make up for my irritation.” Mick released her throat, wrenched her arms over her head, and pinned them to the trunk with one hand. His other paw clamped on her bosom.
She struggled beneath him, but he was too strong. He squeezed her breast, smirking with cruel pleasure.
“Stop! Please.” It was foolish to beg Mick Taylor. It would make him worse. “What do you want?” Even as she asked, she feared she knew. Revenge. For Madame’s death.
His hand dropped from her breast. “I could haul you back to Bow Street. Watch you get locked up in Newgate Prison, where you’ll rot away until they decide to hang you.” His bulk leaned heavily against her. He pressed his thigh between her legs, trapping her skirts. The weight of him made her whimper. Somewhere in the woods, far away, she heard a faint crunching—it must be Devon’s men, looking for her.
Oh, God. She could barely speak for the pressure of his chest against her breasts. “I had to hit her. I had no choice—she was going to shoot Violet.” Without even a flicker of conscience, Madame Sin had been ready to shoot a girl of fourteen to frighten the others into submission. “I hit her once to stop her. I meant to hit her in the arm, to knock the pistol out of her hands. I never meant to strike her in the head. I did it to protect an innocent girl.” The blow had been strong, far more than she’d thought it would be. But she’d been driven by desperation. The crunch of the poker hitting Madame’s skull had been sickening. “You know what happened. You were there—in the room.”
“Aye,” Mick said around a chuckle. “Which makes me a grand witness. I remember you hit the bitch on the side of the head with the fireplace poker. I also know you didn’t kill her, Annie. She woke up after you’d hopped it out the window.”
“I didn’t—” Wild thoughts collided in her head. “But she’s dead. In the news sheets, it said she was—but … if I didn’t kill her, who did?”
“That, love, I don’t know.”
She was innocent. Oh, thank heaven. Madame had been horrible, but Anne had felt so much guilt over the woman’s death. This meant … it meant she was suspected of a crime she hadn’t committed. She could be arrested for it. She could hang even though she was innocent. “Mick, you could stop this by telling the truth—”
“You’re a stupid git, Annie. Do you really think I’m going to go to Bow Street and tell them you’re innocent and say, By the way, I was in the room at the time, with the murder weapon?”
She was so numb with fear it took seconds to understand what he was saying. “You—” She almost said, You did it. “You’re afraid the magistrate will think you did it.” There, she could say it without directly a
ccusing him. But the mocking glare in his feral eyes made her doubt her suspicion. Madame had paid Mick a fortune to protect her. He had no reason to want her dead.
“I didn’t do it, you stupid whore. But I believe I know who did, and that’s how you’re going to help me, you little tart.”
She flinched at the names he called her, the venom with which he spat them in her face. Suddenly he lifted his fist. She hopelessly tried to wrench away, but his meaty hand slammed down, smashing into her temple. Searing pain streaked through her head; spots exploded in front of her eyes. She sagged forward in a fuzzy gray void. Mick lifted her into the air, tossing her over his shoulder. She almost threw up as her stomach hit hard muscle.
“The duke’s bloody servants are getting too close. I’ve got a horse tethered—” He broke off and started to lope through the woods with her. She bounced on his shoulder. She was dizzy, confused, as though she’d drunk a whole bottle of brandy. His blow had knocked her almost senseless, and she was fighting to regain her wits.
They seemed to run for an eternity, and the pain was beginning to ebb when Mick stopped and let her drop to the ground. She was too scrambled and jostled to get her balance, and she fell heavily. Mick scooped her up and pushed her against something warm and soft, something that shied from her. A horse whinnied in protest. Mick gripped her shoulder. He leapt up on the horse, and once he was seated he dragged her up with his hands under her arms. Clamping her to his chest with one hand, he grasped the reins with the other.
Her dazed wits finally understood what was happening. She struggled in terror. But Mick was a brawler. Across her chest, his arm was like a cage, and she couldn’t break free.
“I didn’t hunt you down to take you back to Bow Street,” he snarled by her ear as his horse cantered. The impact was jarring. “There’s no advantage in that for me. I was paid by a titled fop to find you. I’m here to protect you from the law, because this gent wants you alive.”
“Protect me!” she gasped. “I’m innocent.”
“Ah, Bow Street won’t believe it without my word, Annie. And I’ve discovered you’re worth a hell of a lot to this man. You’re going to be my ticket to a life of luxury.”
Her mind began to grasp what he was saying. “What man?”
“Lord Norbrook. He’s been scouring the stews for you. But the fine gentleman didn’t like to get dirty, so he couldn’t find you. He paid me to track you down.”
Sebastian? Looking for her? “Does—does he know about the brothel, about Madame?” Of course he must, if he’d found Mick. But why would Sebastian have hired Mick to find her? He had to know what she’d become—a prostitute—and what she was accused of doing. She would have thought Sebastian would want nothing more than to wash his hands of her.
Mick leaned forward and licked her cheek. It was revolting, a parody of a caress that turned her stomach. “Apparently he still wants you. He thinks you would be willing to be his whore, in exchange for your life.”
She understood. She was going to have to do whatever Sebastian asked, whatever he desired, or he would hand her over to Bow Street to be charged with murder. She had been afraid of her cousin years ago when she was naïve and innocent. After everything she’d had to do to survive, the thought of now becoming Sebastian’s whore made her sick with disgust and horror.
Mick gave his horse a kick, urging it faster along the path, which Anne could barely see. He gave a low laugh by her ear. “Thinking about your fancy Lord Norbrook, are you? Thinking how you can stay alive by fucking him? There’s something you’d better understand, angel—”
Angel. Devon had called her that. But when Mick said it, in his gloating, sadistic voice, the name that had sounded sensual on Devon’s lips curdled in her stomach.
“You live and die at my pleasure now, Annie,” Mick snarled. “Do as I say and I’ll let you survive. I’ll let you go to Norbrook. We’ve got a couple of days to travel together, and you’re going to have to keep me happy. I want to see what a whore does for a duke while she’s fucking him. Madame never let me have a crack at you. She wanted to keep you ‘innocent,’ as she put it, for her richest clients. Now’s my chance to sample your slice.”
Anne wanted to gag. But the most horrible thought came into her head. She was a whore—she was supposed to let men touch her when she didn’t want them. If her life was at stake, she could bed Mick, then do the same with Norbrook. She would have to do it.
Then, wildly, she thought of the contract she’d signed with Devon. Why would she think about it now, that piece of signed paper that set out the terms of a love affair? She remembered how it had hurt her feelings. What a fool she had been. He had written it to protect her. He had not used his power to make her feel weak and defenseless. If she hadn’t been suspected of murder, that contract would have given her the dream of a future, of independence.
She wouldn’t have any future at all, hanging from a rope. She had no choice. She must do whatever Mick demanded, then she would please Sebastian, and she would live.
God, she couldn’t do it. Mick’s touch made her feel as though a dozen spiders were crawling over her skin. She now knew what it was like to want a man’s touch—Devon’s touch. She couldn’t face the thought of letting Mick or her cousin near her.
“The duke gave me jewels,” she lied.
Mick gave a kick to his animal’s flanks, urging the horse faster. “Good, then, Annie. That will do nicely to cover the expense and trouble of me taking you to Norbrook.”
“You don’t understand,” she said desperately. “The duke found out about Madame’s death from the news sheets. He learned I’m suspected of murder, and I had to run away. I didn’t have time to take anything with me. The jewels are worth a fortune, Mick. Far more than Norbrook would pay you. If you help me go back for them, I’ll give them to you. I can get into the house while his servants are rushing around looking for me. If you let me go free, a king’s ransom of diamonds and rubies is yours.”
She had no plan. Just the knowledge that she would rather be caught by Devon and dragged to the magistrate than be a whore for Mick and her cousin Sebastian. She’d done so many sinful things to simply survive. She couldn’t do it anymore. She couldn’t face doing one more thing that made her heart sick and her stomach roil, one more thing she would desperately fight to forget. You couldn’t really forget things like that. They haunted you forever. Just as Devon’s memories of death and battle haunted him.
She prayed greed would drive Mick. Prayed he would turn his horse and take her back to the house. She didn’t know what she’d do after that. Throw herself on Devon’s mercy? She now knew she was innocent, after weeks of fearing she’d killed a woman. But would he believe her?
Mick slowed, obviously thinking it over. Then he began to wheel the horse around—
A new sound broke through the woods. It was the faint but steady beat of hooves. She hadn’t heard it over the noise of Mick’s horse, the hammer of her heart. It rapidly grew louder.
“Shit,” Mick muttered. Now, between the dark columns of the trees, she could see flashes of motion. The sounds of pounding horses and shouting men washed over her like a wave. It was too late for Mick to run.
“Keep your mouth shut,” Mick snapped. “Remember, the duke believes you’re a murderess and will want to see you hang. Don’t think he’s going to save you, Annie.” His horse snorted as he forcefully turned it again to face the oncoming riders.
The mass of horses and riders came completely into view. Her nervous wits distinguished six mounted men. Four were Devon’s grooms and, in the center of the pack, on his black mount, was Devon. He was hatless; he appeared to have thrown a greatcoat over a shirt and trousers. At his side, dressed far more elegantly, rode the Earl of Ashton. At a word from Ashton, all the riders halted a few feet from Mick and her. Two of the grooms and the earl lifted pistols. Anne’s heart stuttered: Three round black muzzles pointed at her.
Something brushed against her back, then stopped beside her head. It wa
s the barrel of Mick’s weapon, and he held it pointed at Ashton. Her heart thrummed in fear. Devon should not have come—he was on his horse, completely reliant upon his hearing and direction from his men and Ashton. Was he so angry with her over her lies, so sickened by her supposed crime, he had come to ensure she was arrested? She wanted to tell him the truth at once. “Your—” she began, but Ashton shouted to Mick, “Identify yourself, sir.”
As Ashton waited for the response, he leaned toward Devon. In the gloom, Anne could not see his lips move, but guessed that he spoke. Devon’s expression grew hard in response.
“Christ Jesus,” he snapped, and his deep, commanding voice froze everyone on the spot. “Ashton, put down your damned pistol!” he roared. “The rest of you, do it also.”
The grooms hesitated. Even though Devon could not see, he barked, “Do it, damn you. I will not have you pointing weapons at Cerise. Now, you on the horse, I don’t know who you are, but I am the Duke of March. You will release the woman and you will send her here to me.”
Mick did not lower his gun. Anne almost choked as his grip tightened around her chest. “My name is Mick Taylor, Your Grace. This woman is suspected of the murder of a woman in London. I’ve been sent to collect Miss Anne Beddington and bring her back to face justice.”
Anne Beddington. She saw Devon flinch at Mick’s use of her real name. At the sudden jerk of the duke’s body, Abednigo shifted uneasily underneath him and pawed at the ground. Anne’s heart caught in her throat as Devon swayed on the horse, then regained his balance. “The woman is Anne Beddington, you say? I know her by a different name.” Suspicion kept his face brutally cold and his eyes so narrow they were shadowed wells.
Oh, God. Now that she had been caught in yet another lie, he would never believe her real story. But she was desperate. She had nothing to lose. “He’s lying!” she cried to Devon. But she had seen his face look so ice cold and hard only after one of his nightmares. “Mick Taylor worked for my madam. He’s not a Bow Street Runner. He is not going to take me to the magistrate. He’s been paid—” She broke off. She hadn’t said the most important thing. “I didn’t kill anyone, Your Grace.” She dared not call him by his Christian name. “Mick can prove my innocence. He knows I didn’t kill Mrs. Meadows, who was known as Madame Sin.”