The Wild One
Page 43
Chapter 19
He tore open the door with such force that one of the hinges gave.
And there they were. Several men out on the landing, none of them known to him, all of them taking turns peeping through the keyhole in hopes of seeing some flesh. Juliet's flesh.
His wife's flesh.
Gareth went berserk.
"You insufferable bastards!" he shouted and, blinded by rage, threw down his sword and went for the one who happened to be nearest.
A saner man than Gareth would never have tackled Joe Lumford, a behemoth who had roughly four stone and some six or seven inches in height on him. A saner man than Gareth would never have attacked someone built like a Clydesdale stallion. A saner man than Gareth would not have chosen the undisputed king of the London boxing scene with whom to pick a fight.
But in that moment, Lord Gareth de Montforte was not sane.
His fist crashed into Lumford's jaw, and with a grunt of surprise the giant fell backward, arms flailing, his great body taking down several others who crumpled beneath him like weeds under a falling tree. There was not much room at the top of the landing, and someone, caught off balance, tumbled down the carpeted stairs, screaming in fear and pain all the way down. Gareth never saw him, never heard him. He had leaped upon his opponent and saw only the battered, ugly face beneath him, the broken nose and the mouth missing half its teeth, a mouth that was now twisted in a snarl of rage and emitting a stream of gutter curses as Gareth's fists pummeled it with the fury of a man wronged. His knuckles split as they connected with the behemoth's jaw, a tooth, the hard edge of his cheekbone. And then, bellowing in outrage, the giant twisted, rose, and hurled Gareth violently off of him and into the plastered wall behind him with force enough to nearly break his shoulders and crack his skull. A picture crashed down, just missing Gareth, but he, maddened, was already up, throwing himself back in for more, his fists flying like cannon shot. He struck, blocked a blow with his arm, and struck again, hard and fast. Blood sprayed from the giant's lip, and he roared like a great wounded beast, his eyes murderous. Downstairs, people were shouting, yelling, and a mass of them came charging up the stairs, Lavinia Bottomley huffing and puffing in the vanguard like a flagship going into battle.
"Stop it, both of you! I'll not have this in my house! I will not!"
Gareth neatly blocked his opponent's fist, let fly with his right, and caught the other man just behind the ear. The giant staggered, swung, and landed a blow to his ribs that drove the air from Gareth's lungs and nearly made him vomit but never slowed him. Someone let out a piercing cheer from just behind his ear, and Gareth, insane with fury and still dazed from his impact with the wall, swung impulsively, his fist striking the fat onlooker a jaw-crunching blow that sent him reeling, senseless, back into the arms of the others. "Damn you for a pack of voyeurs!" he snarled as he lunged for the giant once more. "I'll teach you to go spying on a lady, so help me God!"
The giant came staggering back, the yells and shouts rising to a deafening crescendo all around. Fists collided with flesh. Blood flew, spattering the walls, the carpet. The behemoth was getting the worst of it. Gareth heard people shouting, felt hands clawing at his shoulders like so many spiderwebs as they tried to pull him off, but the interference only enraged him all the more as he and the giant fought for room in the small corridor. His face was damp, his hair in his eyes, his breath coming in fierce bursts. Someone, maybe Mario, made a grab for him, was deflected by one blow from Gareth's powerful fist, and did not come back. And now the giant was nearly finished. His fist struck out in a feeble, half-hearted arc; then his eyes rolled up in his head and he pitched forward, and as he crashed heavily to the carpet, Gareth saw Juliet's stricken face in the doorway just beyond.
She was looking at him in horrified shock.
Charlotte had woken and was screaming, fit to bring the ceiling down.
And a crowd of people were all staring, aghast, at Gareth, one or two of them even backing fearfully away.
"Great God above! He just knocked out Joe Lumford!"
A low, awed murmur. Charlotte's last little sobs. And then nothing but Lavinia Bottomley's piercing howls as she stormed over the fallen giant and came charging through the melee, coming straight up to where Gareth stood trying to catch his breath. "How could you!" she cried. "I took you in, gave you free room and board for the night, and you reciprocated by destroying my hallway, my stairs, my painting! Damn you, Lord Gareth, damn you!"
Gareth shook his still-dazed head and looked around. Slowly, sanity came back to him, and with a sickening sense of dread, he realized just what he'd done. Not that he regretted it; his wife's honor had demanded nothing less. But he'd probably managed to get them thrown out of the only place they had to stay for the night. Worst of all, he'd horribly embarrassed his wife.
Bloody hell. By tomorrow morning, this would be all over London.
Oh, Juliet. I am sorry.
He lowered his bleeding fists, then bent his forehead to them and leaned against the wall, his hair falling over his raw knuckles. From what seemed like a great distance away but was in fact only a foot or two, he could hear Lavinia hollering at him, could feel everyone staring at him like he was some terrible freak. God help him; honor dictated that dueling must only be conducted with other gentlemen; otherwise, he would've called out the lot of them and faced them outside with his sword.
A low murmur began among those gathered in the tiny hallway, on the stairs. Someone tried to seize his shoulder, and he angrily shook him off. Lavinia was still yelling about the damage done to her wall, her painting, her carpet. Gareth bent his head, driving his bloodied knuckles into his temple, his face twisted by self-disgust and loathing for what he had done to his wife.
And then he heard soft footfalls.
Hers.
And every person in the hallway went quiet.
She came forward, walking with a firmness of stride and purpose that would have done Boudicca proud. Her hair was down around her shoulders, and she wore a look of stoic resolve, of courage, of grace under the most terrible of pressures. She came up to him, pulled his gashed and bloodied hands down from his face and drew him, her warrior, against her slight form.
And then, holding him thus, she turned and faced them all, her eyes hard and angry.
Not a person moved.
"My husband, was, after all, told that we wouldn't be interrupted," she said to the glowering abbess. "Not only does he have a temper but also a sense of honor that would put the most chivalrous of knights to shame. Your little peep-show was enough to make that combination lethal. You only got what you deserved. Shame on you, all of you."
"He destroyed my door! My painting is ruined! I had it imported from France, do you know how much it cost me?! It's priceless! My carpet is ruined, my wall cracked, my reputation will never recover from this!"
Gareth straightened up, raking his hair back from his face, feeling a little sick to his stomach. "Look, Lavinia, I'll pay you for the picture," he muttered, wiping a trickle of blood from his mouth with the back of his hand. "Just tell me what it costs, and I'll pay you for it."
Lavinia Bottomley, however, was inconsolable. "It's priceless!" she shrieked, stamping her foot in rage. "Don't you understand? Priceless!"
"My husband said he would pay you," Juliet ground out, knowing there was a price for everything. Her arm was still around Gareth's waist, anchoring him, controlling him, when the great brute who lay unconscious on the carpet could not. "Send the bill to de Montforte House. I'm sure His Grace will see that you are reimbursed for all damages."
"Damn right he will! Now get out of here, you and that screaming brat, before I have you all thrown out on your ears! Mario! Mario!"
The Italian, confused and dismayed by this turn of events — not to mention wary of Gareth's deadly fists — took a doubtful step forward.
"No." Gareth put out a hand, staying him, not wanting to have to hurt him. "There is no need to exert yourself over me, my friend. There's be
en trouble enough here for one night." He pulled Juliet close, so fiercely proud of her for defending him, for standing by him, that he felt near to bursting. But when he turned to the abbess, his eyes narrowed, and anyone who knew the de Montfortes would have recognized the dangerous threat in that lazy blue gaze and shuddered with dread.
"We're leaving, Lavinia. And if word gets out that we were even here tonight, I'll make sure that none but the lowest scum in London ever again frequents this house. I'll make sure that no person in polite society will ever come near this place again, that you're closed down for lack of the right patronage. Do you understand, Lavinia? In short, I will ruin you."
The abbess, one hand on her bosom, took a step backward, her face as white as paste.
Gareth let his icy gaze sweep over the lot of them. He pulled his wife close and escorted her back into their room, where they silently gathered their things and wrapped up Charlotte against the chill of the night.
Then, silent and tight-lipped, they made their way down the stairs, Gareth's hand resting on his sword hilt in case anyone challenged them further.
Not a person spoke as they filed past.
And neither of them saw the sly, silent figure who slipped outside after them.