The Rogue Is Back in Town

by Anna Bennett

  Good heavens. Please, don’t let it be Uncle Alistair—not when he’d already been through so much.

  The man who’d been hovering over her brushed past in order to investigate the commotion outside, and she craned her neck from the hall, equally curious.

  The front door was flung wide open, and she caught a glimpse of impossibly broad shoulders, sandy brown hair, and a rugged profile.

  Her heart caught in her throat. But … it couldn’t be.

  The man’s jacket was pressed, and his boots were polished to a sheen. He wore a cravat, for goodness’ sake—and it was as white as downy snow or angel’s wings or a newborn sheep.

  “Move out of my way,” he demanded. The voice was low and lethal, but she’d recognize it anywhere. Sam.

  Chapter FORTY-ONE

  Julie leaned the portrait against the wall and ran to the door. The three men Nigel had sent stood shoulder to shoulder, a barricade of muscle and flesh. Sam bumped chests with the middle one. “Out of my way,” he repeated. “Now.”

  The tallest brute laughed. “We don’t answer to you.”

  “Not unless you’ve more blunt to spare than your brother,” another mocked.

  Good heavens. The men were already clenching their fists, eager for a fight. And Sam didn’t stand a chance against three of them.

  “Sam,” she called from behind the men. “What are you doing here? Where’s my uncle?”

  “Alistair is fine,” he said calmly. “I told him to wait in the carriage while I sort out this misunderstanding.”

  “There’s no misunderstanding,” one of the men growled. “This house belongs to the marquess.”

  Sam frowned. “Go back into the parlor, Juliette. I’ll come for you once this matter has been resolved.

  He was mad if he thought she was going anywhere. “You haven’t answered my question, Sam. Why did you come?”

  He muttered a curse. “I heard that Nigel was forcing you to leave, but now you don’t have to. I’m going to talk with him.”

  Her throat grew thick with emotion. She was touched by the gesture, but it was far too late for talking. Besides, they’d tried that tack already. “It’s all right, Sam.” She hated that they were reduced to having a conversation while peering between the necks of the dockworkers. “My uncle and I have resigned ourselves to the fact that we must leave.”

  “No,” he said, emphatic. “You don’t have to. Trust me.”

  “You should listen to the lady,” the middle brute said. “She has the right of it. And I’m all out of patience.” With that, he turned toward Julie, savagely grabbed her wrist, and hauled her out of the hallway onto the front doorstep.

  “Take. Your hand. Off her.” Sam yanked the man by his collar and shook him so hard that Julie heard his teeth clatter.

  The man released her and flung her toward Sam, who wound an arm around her waist, steadying her. Solid and strong, he held her tightly and murmured in her ear, “Everything is going to be fine.”

  It wasn’t going to be fine. She knew it wasn’t. But with Sam there, at her side, she felt as though she might be able to make it through this ordeal without crumpling into a sobbing heap. For her uncle’s sake, she must try.

  “I’m taking my uncle to my sister Meg’s house,” she explained, trying to defuse the powder keg. “I just need to retrieve Aunt Elspeth’s portrait, and I’ll be ready to go.” She raised her chin and prepared to walk past the men, but they made no move to step aside.

  “I’ve had enough.” The middle thug stared straight past her. “No one’s going back in the house.”

  “But the portrait … it’s right in the corridor.”

  “Go to your carriage,” the man said, impassive.

  The last remnant of her self-control snapped like a dry twig. “No.” She breathed heavily through her nostrils. “I’m not leaving without that portrait.”

  Sam pulled her back and wrapped a protective arm around her. “Juliette, let me—”

  “No, no, nooo.” She flung herself at the man, beating his chest with her fists. He chuckled in response and swatted her away.

  Sam jumped into the fray, inserting himself between Julie and the brute. “Wait on the pavement,” he said to her, his tone brooking no argument. “I will take care of this.”

  She choked back a sob. Her hair had come loose in the scuffle, and half of it hung over her shoulder. Her dress was soiled. Every muscle in her body ached. She’d barely slept or eaten in two days, and didn’t have the energy to fight anymore.

  But she couldn’t let Sam take on three brawny dockworkers. If something happened to him …

  “I don’t want the portrait,” she lied. “Let’s go.”

  “Wait for me by the carriage,” he said to her, even as he glared at the men. “I’ll join you momentarily.”

  Too exhausted to protest, she did as he asked. She waved at Uncle Alistair, who peered through the carriage window at her and attempted an encouraging smile. Then she watched Sam and the men from her vantage near the street, her heart in her throat.

  Sam pulled a paper out of his jacket and showed it to the men, who merely laughed and shoved him backward. Incensed, Sam dropped the paper and charged at them. He slammed his fist into the gut of the largest man, threw an elbow at the chin of another. While the third looked on, stunned, Sam ran into the house.

  Julie’s fingers went numb. What on earth was he doing, picking a fight when he was so outnumbered? The third man chased after him, and she could hear their grunts and moans from outside. The entire house seemed to vibrate from the impact of flesh against plaster.

  An eternity later, Sam emerged from the front door, blood trickling from his brow, carrying the portrait over his head. When the biggest man blocked his path, Sam kicked him in the knee and quickly handed off the portrait to a footman, who whisked it away from the mayhem.

  But Aunt Elspeth’s painting was the least of Julie’s worries.

  “Be careful, Sam,” she pleaded. All three of the dockworkers were back on their feet, circling Sam like graceless, menacing birds of prey. His feet shoulder-width apart, he sneered at each one in turn, clearly issuing a challenge. Do your worst.

  And then the fighting began in earnest.

  The man with the square jaw lunged at Sam’s knees, but he dodged the brute and slammed an elbow into his back as he sailed past.

  The largest man locked Sam’s arms from behind as the third came at his face with his fist cocked. Sam twisted sideways and kicked him in the groin before he could land a punch. The brute curled into a ball and writhed on the pavement.

  But the giantlike man still had Sam’s wrists in a vise-hold behind his back. The muscles in his neck strained as he struggled to free himself, and blood dripped from the cut above his eye.

  Julie’s veins turned to ice. If the men were irritated before, now they were furious.

  The man with the square jaw stood and cracked his knuckles, his dull eyes gleaming with anticipation. He walked right up to Sam, pulled back a fist, and buried it in his stomach. He doubled over, coughing and gasping for air.

  Dear God. “Stop,” she cried, running to him.

  “Stay back, Juliette,” Sam rasped.

  “Let him come with me,” she begged the dockworkers. “We’ll leave at once if you’ll just let him go.”

  Sam shook his head. “I’m not going anywhere. Those papers”—he inclined his head toward the crumpled papers littering the pavement—“are a contract. I’ve arranged to purchase the house and give it to you and your uncle. My solicitor made an offer, and Nigel accepted. This has been your home for decades … and it shall be your home for decades to come.”

  In spite of their terrible predicament, a warm glow radiated inside her chest. Not because of the house, but because of the gesture. “You did that … for us?”

  “Yes,” he confirmed. “For you.”

  A fortnight ago, he’d had no money. Owned nothing of value. “But how?”

  “This is all very touching.�
�� The dockworker who held Sam prisoner snorted. “Your contract means naught to me, but you can show it directly to the boss.” He nodded at the curb where a midnight blue carriage rolled to a stop behind Uncle Alistair’s coach. “Here he is, now.”

  Nigel disembarked from his carriage and surveyed the scene with icy detachment. He walked toward them as though he were out for a casual stroll in Hyde Park.

  Sam struggled to free himself, but the brute yanked on his arms till he winced. Julie scrambled to scoop up the papers, then thrust them at Nigel.

  “Good afternoon, Miss Lacey.” He did not take the contract from her but stared at it like it was a three-day old fish. “What’s this?”

  “A contract,” Sam spat. “I’m buying the house from you so Juliette and her uncle can stay here.”

  Nigel’s eyebrows shot halfway up his forehead. “You?” he asked, incredulous. “You can’t even pay your gambling debts.”

  “Never fear,” Sam said, his voice low and lethal. “You’ll have your money. Now call off your hired thugs and leave Juliette in peace.”

  The marquess shook his head. “Your devotion to Miss Lacey would be laughable if it wasn’t so pathetic. Do you imagine she’ll be so grateful that she’ll fall into bed with you—again? Perhaps she already has. Either way, she’ll toss you aside once you’ve ceased to be useful.”

  Sam lunged toward Nigel before the brute hauled him back. Julie’s heart ached for Sam. This was his brother, who he’d been desperate to reconcile with. His only living family member and his last connection to their late father. In his own way, Sam had been fighting to protect his home as surely as she’d been working to protect hers.

  “Leave Juliette out of it,” Sam snapped. “This is a business transaction, between you and me. Nothing more.”

  The marquess clucked his tongue and snatched the contract out of Julie’s hands. “So you are the mysterious, anonymous buyer,” he mused, scanning the pages.

  “What does it matter?” Sam countered. “You’ll be paid the purchase price, and this house will no longer be your concern.”

  Nigel sighed dramatically—and ripped the contract to shreds.

  Julie gasped and her hand flew to her mouth.

  “Don’t worry,” Sam assured her. “My solicitor has another copy.”

  “Yes, yes,” Nigel said, dismissive. “But all the copies in the world are no good unless the contract has been signed and executed—and this one has not.”

  “You bastard,” Sam growled.

  Nigel tossed a handful of paper scraps over his shoulder, smiling as the light breeze made them tumble and scatter across the pavement. “Upon further consideration, I’ve decided that the house will make an excellent investment property. It will require extensive renovations, of course, and I intend to begin those at once. Which is why, regretfully, I must insist that the house be vacated. Immediately.” He tipped his hat mockingly at Juliette and Sam before striding back toward his coach. “Come see me when the job is done,” he called to the dockworkers.

  And a minute later, the dark blue coach rumbled off. Nigel was gone.

  Julie turned to Sam and tenderly pushed his hair away from the cut on his forehead. “Come with me,” she pleaded. “I thought nothing was more important than this house, but I was wrong. I don’t want it if it means you’re hurt or destitute or … alone.” She placed her palms on his cheeks. “Please?”

  His beautiful eyes were haunted. Defeated. But he nodded, resigned.

  “That’s enough,” she said to the man who still grasped Sam’s arms from behind. “Let him go.”

  “I will.” A sick, sadistic grin spread across face. “But first, a small parting gift.” Before Julie knew what was happening, he twisted Sam’s right elbow far behind his back and pulled up—hard.

  Crack. Sam groaned and fell to his knees, then collapsed on the ground, his arm dangling awkwardly from his shoulder.

  Chapter FORTY-TWO

  Holy hell.

  Sam bit back a curse as he writhed on his back, fighting back the blackness that threatened at the edges of his vision.

  Juliette knelt beside him, and somehow her sweet voice cut through the blinding pain. “Oh, Sam.” She leaned over him, and he focused on her beautiful face. Wondered if he was imagining the affection in her eyes.

  With the hem of her gown, she dabbed at the blood dripping down his cheek. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered. “Your arm?” she asked gently.

  “Broken,” he said through gritted teeth.

  Her eyes welled with unshed tears. “The men are gone—they went inside the house. I’m going to take you to my sister’s and summon a doctor.” She turned and shouted toward the carriage, “Mr. Finch!”

  The butler and a footman scurried toward them, but Sam managed to sit up on his own. “I can walk,” he said, with more confidence than he felt.

  He held the elbow of his injured arm as Julie helped him stand. Mr. Finch directed the footman to rearrange some of the trunks and boxes stacked inside the carriage so they could squeeze in an additional passenger.

  “Sam,” Julie whispered. “Thank you. For what you tried to do. For fighting for Uncle Alistair and me. No one’s ever done that before.”

  “You shouldn’t be thanking me.” He couldn’t keep the bitterness out of his voice. “In case you didn’t notice, I failed you.”

  “No,” she said, adamant. “You didn’t. You saved the portrait of Aunt Elspeth. I can’t tell you what that means to me and my uncle—although you have a better idea than most.”

  Mr. Finch lifted the frame off the ground and carried the painting to the carriage almost reverently. He propped it behind the driver’s seat and carefully draped a quilt over it.

  Pain radiated up and down Sam’s arm, from his fingertips to his shoulder, as he climbed into the coach and sat across from Alistair.

  The old man leaned over and patted Sam’s leg sympathetically. “Those miscreants had you outnumbered,” he observed. “But you still managed to land a few good punches. Their behavior was utterly despicable, and they should be defamed of themselves.”

  Sam smiled for Alistair’s sake. “How’s the research going?”

  He shrugged in response. “I miss my assistant … and my study is in a bit of a shambles at the moment … but other than that, I’d say it’s progressing dandily.”

  Julie stepped up into the cab, a silk pillow tucked under one arm. “I grabbed this out of one of the trunks,” she said, gingerly placing it on his lap and taking care not to jostle his arm. “I thought it might help support your arm during the ride.”

  “Thank you,” he said, touched. The pillow did help a little, but having her close helped more.

  She slipped onto the seat beside him and pushed her mussed hair over her shoulder. Her dress was soiled with dust and his blood, and the dark smudges beneath her eyes made her face appear pale and fragile. But she’d never looked lovelier.

  “Well,” she said with forced brightness. “I think we have everything now. It’s as though we’re going to a house party—only it’s in town.”

  “And the hosts are not at home,” Sam added dryly.

  “And there are no other guests,” added Alistair, “save the doctor we’ll be summoning.”

  Julie cast a slightly scolding glance at the pair of them. “But other than that, it’s precisely the same.” She pretended she was perfectly fine as the coach pulled away from the curb, and she didn’t peer through the back window. Didn’t spare a glance at the house where she’d lived most of her childhood.

  But she didn’t fool Sam. He saw the tremor of her chin and heard the catch in her voice.

  He wanted to hold her and tell her that he’d find a way to make everything right.

  Nigel may have won the round, but Sam wasn’t about to give up the fight for the house.

  And he sure as hell wasn’t giving up the fight for Juliette.

  * * *

  Julie woke with a start. Her cheek rested on fresh, soft linen. He
r hair was loose and still slightly damp at the roots from her bath. She wore a sumptuous silk dressing gown that definitely wasn’t hers.

  She sat up and gazed around the elegant bedchamber—dark but for the glow of a dim lamp. Ah, yes. She was at Meg and Will’s townhouse. In their bed, no less.

  Good heavens, how long had she slept? She sprang out of the bed and located a clock on Meg’s desk.

  Midnight.

  Blast. She’d only meant to rest her eyes for a moment—but she’d slept the day away, leaving Sam to suffer alone. She hoped he was in the guest bedchamber where the doctor had attended him, sleeping peacefully, but perhaps he’d insisted on going home to his own bed.

  There was only one way to find out.

  She cinched the sash of her dressing gown, padded across the room, and slipped out the door to find the rest of the house blessedly quiet.

  As she neared his room, she saw light seeping out from beneath his door, and her heart danced like it hadn’t since … since … the last time she and Sam had been alone together.

  She told herself she wouldn’t disturb him. She’d only peek in to ensure he was as comfortable as possible. Tingling with anticipation, she turned the knob, cracked open the door, and glanced to the bed—the noticeably empty bed.

  Julie sagged against the door frame. He’d left before she’d had a chance to properly thank him. Before she’d had a chance to tell him how she felt.

  “I thought you’d never come.” The deep, masculine voice reverberated through her.

  Sam sidled up to her, a wicked grin lighting his face. His right arm was bandaged and supported by a sling around his neck. His hair hung low over one eye, almost hiding the nasty cut. His shirt was open at the collar, with nary a cravat nor jacket in sight.

  Desire pooled in her belly. The rogue was back.

  With his good arm, he grasped her wrist, pulled her into the room, and closed the door. “But you were worth the wait.”

  Her cheeks flushed. “How is your arm?”