by Gaelen Foley
Mara stared back at her, completely at a loss.
Chapter 5
Oh, what now? Jordan thought in annoyance, as the disturbance in a distant corner of the park drew his attention.
Still roiling with anger after their fight, indeed, driven half-mad by all he could not tell her, he had been cantering his horse eastward through Hyde Park, intent on exiting by the Park Lane gate. From there, it was only a few blocks’ ride to his home in Grosvenor Square.
But something made him glance back, some vague sixth sense for danger that years in the Order had honed in him, and it was then that he spotted the throng gathered in the distance.
Though it was many acres away, off in the northeast corner of the park, it struck him as most irregular. Certain spy instincts in him began to tingle. Filled with curiosity, he slowed his horse, turned the animal’s nose to the north, and rode closer to see what was afoot.
A few hundred people had gathered before a scruffy orator who was shouting to the crowd from atop the stump of an old tree.
Jordan could only make out a few words over the people’s cheers of agreement and their angry jeers of shared indignation at the mention of certain names.
Lords Liverpool and Sidmouth.
“Tar and feather the lot of ’em, I say!”
Jordan’s eyes narrowed. Carefully, he studied the crowd. While the Home Office wrung its hands about the threat of sedition, the Order was more concerned about Promethean meddling in the underground circles of the Radical movement.
The Prometheans, after all, had long been masters of ferreting out the malcontents in a society, offering them full backing, then slyly inciting them to violence. Whatever brought on chaos and set opposing groups at each other’s throats aided their cause. He scanned the crowd for any known Promethean faces—and he received a number of surly glances in return.
This was not a crowd to welcome an obvious gentleman of wealth and breeding into their midst. Even his horse could sense the foul mood permeating the mob. The white hunter snorted, tossing his head at the unkempt rabble in lordly disdain. “Easy,” Jordan soothed, reining in to a walk.
He had barely arrived at the edge of the gathering when he heard the eruption of raucous jeering at the far end of the crowd, several acres away.
He guided his horse past a stand of trees for a clearer view of the scene unfolding on the Ring.
I’ll be damned. The impudent savages had stopped somebody’s carriage.
Then his gaze homed in on the familiar Pierson insignia on the carriage door, and he felt his blood run cold.
A swarm of men had jumped atop her coach and were rocking it violently, amid brutish laughter, banging on the roof, as if they meant to knock the whole thing over.
Mara!
Others had grabbed the horses’ bridles, holding them in place with bullying hilarity. They were throwing things at the coachman.
Good God, Jordan thought as the blood drained from his face, Mara and her child were in that coach. The old woman, too.
In the next second, he was spurring his horse toward the besieged carriage. His galloping hunter’s hoofbeats thundered over the turf.
Sweeping along the edge of the crowd, he sent a few people diving out of his way, ignoring their curses in his wake.
In the next instant, he charged into the rabble surrounding the carriage, crashing into their midst with all the mass and power of his angry horse scattering the men. Some fell back, shouting as they found themselves nearly trampled under his gelding’s hoofs. From inside the coach, meanwhile, he could hear Thomas crying.
He gritted his teeth, homing in on his first target. An unkempt young man was climbing up onto the roof of Mara’s carriage, eager to join his whooping, stomping mates there.
Leaning out of the saddle, Jordan grabbed the lad by the back of his coat and threw him onto the ground. He rolled clear of the gelding’s hooves with a startled yelp.
Jordan did not wait for him to get to his feet but immediately sought his next target. Whirling his horse around, he plucked another blackguard off the back of Mara’s coach.
This one had planted himself on the groom’s standing bar at the back of the vehicle. Jordan likewise knocked him back to earth while the crowd turned to mayhem, people hollering, Mara screaming his name from inside the coach.
His horse reared up, nearly bashing in some fellow’s face as Jordan vaulted nimbly out of the saddle and landed atop the halted coach.
He caught his balance easily between the two ruffians dancing an insolent jig on the carriage roof.
These now greeted him with their fists; he ducked a blow and sent the one who’d dealt it flying off the side of coach.
The second, larger man laughed at him. Jordan smiled none too kindly, then punched him hard—a solid sock in the jaw. The big fellow absorbed the blow, looked at him in wrath, and then returned the favor.
Jordan staggered back but planted his feet to keep his balance on the slick black surface. While they continued trading blows, Mara craned her neck out the window to try to see what was happening up on her carriage roof.
“Jordan!”
She distracted him just for a fraction of a second, but it was enough to allow the large, smelly man to grab him in a headlock.
“Unhand that gentleman!” she ordered his opponent. “You happen to be assaulting a peer of the realm, you brute!”
“All the more reason to hit ’im!” the hefty rebel vaunted, to the crowd’s cheers.
Jordan scowled at Mara, as he grappled to pull the thick arm free from around his neck. “Get—back—inside!” he ordered her, straining for breath.
He had been trying not to actually hurt anyone among the populace he protected, but he suddenly lost patience.
Throwing his weight forward, he ducked down and flipped the man over his shoulder. The big ruffian sailed to earth and landed in the gravel with a thud.
Panting, Jordan looked over his shoulder at her bloodied coachman. “Drive!” he clipped out, then he leaped back onto his horse from atop her carriage.
He could not tell if the crowd was roaring at or for him, but he ignored them either way, urging his hunter up toward the lead horse of her coach’s wild-eyed team.
“Easy,” Jordan murmured to her horses. But when another man shouted a taunt, describing the panicked lady inside the coach with highly indecorous language, Jordan drew his sword. “Enough!” he bellowed. “Fall back!” He brandished his weapon, letting the rabble know he would not tolerate further mischief. “Out of our way!”
Finally, the heaving sea of humanity around them parted.
While Jordan held the angry mob at bay with his sword, Mara’s driver cracked the whip. The trembling horses leaped forward in their traces, tearing off toward the park gates.
Still warning the miscreants off with his blade, Jordan heard a distant shot as someone fired into the air.
The whole throng looked over.
A collective gasp arose at the line of elite dragoons riding toward them in the distance, the sun glinting off their plumed helmets as they advanced across the muddy green.
A tenfold pandemonium instantly broke out.
The hundreds of onlookers watching the fray and listening to the speaker made a sudden stampede for the gates to avoid arrest.
In the crush that by then resembled a riot, Jordan did not care if he had to trample his countrymen to reach Mara. His horse whinnied piercingly at the surging mob all around them, but Jordan did not relent until he had brought his animal up alongside her carriage.
While the fleeing crowd flooded into Oxford Street, he yelled at her to keep the shades closed and to stay down. Then he quickly escorted her carriage across the famed avenue and straight into Great Cumberland Street.
They did not slow their pace until they reached the grand stuccoed crescent where she lived.
Her driver stopped the coach in front of the end unit, and Jordan sprang down off his white hunter even as the door to her town house flew ope
n. A butler stepped out with a look of alarm; Jordan yanked open the carriage door and took the crying child from her.
Mara gestured toward her front door with a trembling hand. Jordan sped the boy up the front steps while her ashen-faced driver quickly helped the ladies down.
He handed Thomas over to the startled butler, then turned back to steady Mara and the nurse. As soon as the ladies were safely inside, he slammed the door behind them and turned the locks.
“Milady, what happened?” the butler cried, but Mara could not manage a response. She merely shook her head, helping the old woman into a chair by the wall in the entrance hall.
Then she reclaimed her crying son from the startled butler’s arms. While she kissed and rocked the tot, trying to hush his sobs, Jordan prowled to the bay window that overlooked the street.
Brushing the curtain aside, he peered out but saw no evidence that they had been followed. Still, he wouldn’t put it past the mob to persist in harassing her.
The Regent’s doxy. He clenched his jaw.
On the street below the window, a few of Mara’s stable hands had rushed out of the mews behind her town house to help her driver put the coach away. Thankfully, one of the lads had had the sense to collect Jordan’s white hunter.
All the horses were walked back around to the mews; with the coach and horses out of sight, there was less danger that the miscreants might still track them to her house.
Scanning the men below, Jordan furrowed his brow when he saw that her coachman was bleeding from his forehead.
More than just knocking his hat off, that rock must have struck him, after all. It reminded Jordan that his own jaw was a bit sore after his round of fisticuffs. He had taken a few good blows but was still too riled up to feel it.
“Reese, send for the doctor,” Mara was saying to her butler over in the foyer.
“No need.” Jordan pivoted from the window and marched toward them. “I have some medical training. Is somebody hurt?”
Mara turned to him in surprise. “You do?”
He nodded as he stalked toward them. Battlefield medicine was a part of every agent’s basic training, along with the use of many different weapons. In his line of work, such skills were required for self-preservation.
“Will you check Thomas over?” she asked, stepping forward to present her child to him.
“Of course.” He nodded, but as his gaze touched hers, Jordan realized that she was entrusting him with no small favor. Her son was the most precious thing to her in all the world.
“Will you please remove his bonnet?” he asked in a cool tone. “Let’s make sure he hasn’t bumped his head, all right?”
At once, she started to oblige, but her hands were still shaking so much that she fumbled with the ribbons.
Jordan gently pushed her hand away, then untied the baby’s parti-colored hat himself, some sort of playful jester’s cap with little bells on the ends of each soft point.
“He’s going to hate you for making him wear that in public when he’s older,” he offered softly, trying to snap her out of her needless panic with a brief attempt at levity.
She frowned at him. “I made it for him myself.”
“Er, right.” Jordan dropped his gaze. So much for his attempt at humor.
Thomas was still crying in loud, full-throated displeasure at his ordeal in the park, the tiny white buds of his new teeth on display with every deafening wail.
“That will do, young man,” Jordan murmured as he lifted the funny jester’s cap away.
He ran his cupped hand gently over the tot’s downy head, feeling for any areas where there might be swelling. He also checked the boy’s neck with a gentle squeeze.
“Is there anything amiss?” Mara asked anxiously.
“No. Did he fall at all inside the carriage?”
“No, I held him on my lap the whole time.”
“Good.” Jordan quickly concluded that Thomas was perfectly fine, especially when the boy stopped crying presently, distracted by Jordan’s inspection. Thomas batted away Jordan’s gently probing fingers with a tiny hand.
Jordan smiled in amusement as Thomas studied him in babyish indignation, those big brown eyes scowling at him as if to say, “Don’t touch me! You’re not my mama!”
“No worries here,” Jordan confirmed to the boy’s worried mother, but her agitated look informed him she was not going to rest easy until he had checked the boy from head to toe.
Jordan did not argue. With Mara still holding Thomas, he felt along the toddler’s arms and legs until Thomas began giggling at what he took for a game. Rather charmed in spite of himself, Jordan tickled his tummy. “No, my lady. This little fellow is just fine.”
At the sound of her child’s laughter, Mara apparently realized at last that the end of the world was not at hand. She heaved a huge sigh. Then she gazed at Jordan with such utter relief and gratitude that he half feared she might collapse. “God bless you,” she uttered.
He reached out and steadied her by her elbow. “Are you all right?”
“I think so.” As soon as she bent and set Thomas down, he pattered off after the cat, trailing a stream of cheerful babbling in his wake.
Jordan studied Mara. “Maybe you should sit down.”
She shook her head. “I’m fine. Would you see to Mrs. Busby?”
He nodded and went to ask the old woman how she was. She rubbed her chest. “I never felt my heart pound so,” she admitted. Jordan took her wrist and checked her pulse, but soon concluded she was more shaken up than anything. “You should get some rest, ma’am.”
Behind him, Mara nodded at her. “Please, take the rest of the day off. Mary can look after Thomas.”
Mrs. Busby clutched both of Jordan’s hands. “Thank you for rescuing us, sir. I beg your pardon—I don’t even know your name!”
“This is Lord Falconridge, Mrs. Busby,” Mara informed her. “Jordan, this is Tommy’s nurse. She knows more about children than ten books on the subject. Thirty grandchildren!”
“Really?” Jordan smiled at her. “I’m sure the boy is very lucky to have you, ma’am. Let me help you up.”
The old nurse bowed her head modestly and accepted his hand in rising from her chair. He escorted her over to the stairs, where she thanked him again. Before leaving them to go lie down, Mrs. Busby paused and glanced at Mara in kindly concern. “Are you sure you’re all right, milady?”
Mara nodded at her with a forced smile. “Thank you. Now, you go rest for a while. Let my maid know if you need anything.”
The old woman gave her a grateful smile. After Mrs. Busby had disappeared up the stairs, Mara and Jordan looked at each other for a long moment.
An awkward silence filled the bright, airy foyer.
“W-were you hurt at all in that fight?” she ventured at length.
“No.”
“You were brilliant, Jordan.”
A nonchalant shrug. “All in a day’s work.” He was unsure why his heart had started pounding. He could not seem to tear his stare away from her.
Mara dropped her gaze, and Jordan suddenly sensed she was about to launch into some heartfelt speech, probably thanking him for his display of derring-do and heaping praise on him that he did not deserve.
Not after the cold and cutting things he had said to her at the park a short while ago.
Though he had felt fully justified at the time, his words now filled him with scalding remorse. He suddenly saw himself as no better than that rabble, attacking her. Who was he to judge her, anyway? Self-righteous bastard.
“Jordan—”
He cleared his throat, cutting her off before she could reward him with her thanks. “I’ll go check on your coachman. He was bleeding from his forehead, you know.”
“What?” Her eyes widened. “Jack’s hurt?”
“Someone in the crowd threw a rock at him.”
“Oh, no!” The awkwardness thankfully passed with this change of topic. “Let’s go out to the stables and see how he is
!” she said at once.
“No. You stay here. I’d rather you stay out of sight for a while. I’ll take care of him for you.”
She paled anew, her eyes as dark as night. “Do you think that mob might still come after me?”
“Well, no. I wouldn’t think so, necessarily. But just to be safe, I mean to send for a few capable men to keep watch here at your house in case they do. They are ex-military, trained in security.” He was thinking of Sergeant Parker and his mates, of course, but Mara’s look of renewed panic at the thought that the ruffians might be back brought his immediate reassurance. “I’m sure you have nothing to worry about, but if you’ll indulge me, it would make me feel better if they were here, that’s all. I’ll post two or three of them around your house for a day or two to keep watch—unless you have any objections?”
She shook her head dazedly.
But she looked so scared, he could not help himself. He went to her. “There, sweet. It’s going to be all right.”
Heart pounding, he watched as though outside himself as he carefully drew her into his arms and held her.
The feel of her in his embrace and the scent of her perfume made his senses throb; his lips grazed her brow, barely skimming the dizzying silk of her warm, pearly skin.
Mara had closed her eyes and had gone quite motionless, as well, perhaps as amazed as he at the blissful shock of their fleeting closeness.
“Thank you,” she whispered with a shudder of what he assumed was belated fear.
“You are welcome,” he answered in a measured tone.
“I-I didn’t expect you to come back.”
“Well, when I saw them bothering you, I could hardly leave you to fend for yourself, now, could I?” His light murmur belied the snarling ferocity he felt toward anyone who would dare harm her, but Mara had tensed in his arms.
“After the things you said, I can’t figure why you’d bother.” She stepped back from him, her wary gaze searching his face. “But I suppose you are still a gentleman even if I am not a lady, isn’t that right?” She smiled ruefully when she said it, but he stiffened nonetheless at her gentle rebuke.