Anne Gracie - [The Devil Riders 02]

by His Captive Lady

  “I understand now,” she said, her arms around him. “It would be very hard to forgive such cruelty. And I’m sorry for bringing it all up, stirring up old hurts and opening old wounds.”

  Harry kissed her, feeling comforted. He’d never told anyone that tale, only Gabe. And then not in such detail.

  He didn’t feel stirred up, though, or as if old wounds had reopened. Instead he felt . . . healed.

  Telling her, lying entwined with her like this, talking in quiet voices into the night, made him realize how young he’d been. It wasn’t love he’d felt for Anthea, he suddenly realized. It was infatuation, calf-love, his first serious boyhood crush.

  It wasn’t love at all.

  It was nothing like love.

  “Oh Harry,” Nell whispered. “I love you so much . . .”

  She looked at him with eyes full of love and expectation.

  Harry stared down at her. He couldn’t speak the words she wanted to hear. They were stuck in his throat. They would remain there, he knew, until he did something, until he was able to give her more than words.

  They made love again, and it was slow and tender and bittersweet. The unspoken words hung silent and heavy in the room.

  Sixteen

  Cooper put the last touches to Nell’s coiffure. She’d tried something different again, plaiting in sections of hair in a continuous circle around the crown of Nell’s head, like a coronet.

  Nell regarded her reflection with amazement. Who was that elegant young woman? Certainly not Nell, the hoyden who’d grown up in the stables with her skirts hitched up to stop them dragging in the mud and her hair falling down around her ears.

  Lady Helen, perhaps? No, she’d never felt like a Lady Helen. Lady Nell now . . .

  “You’re glowing, m’lady,” Cooper told her. “You look wonderful.”

  “Thank you, Cooper, you’ve worked miracles.”

  “I can only do so much, m’lady. ’Tis love does the rest, I reckon.”

  Nell blushed. He’d made love to her last night with a tender sweetness that had melted her completely.

  And very early this morning they’d made love again with a fierce passion that had burned her last inhibitions up in glorious conflagration. She was still a little stiff from it. She didn’t mind at all.

  He still hadn’t told her he loved her. Physically, she felt well loved, but she craved to hear the words from him. More and more she recalled his words back when he had first proposed. It’s not love’s young dream I’m offering you.

  It wasn’t love’s young dream she wanted. Just love. Harry’s love.

  There was a knock on the door.

  “Come in,” she called.

  A footman entered and bowed. “I’ve been sent to show you to the breakfast parlor, m’lady.”

  “Oh, thank you. Can you just call Mr. Morant, please?”

  The footman frowned. “But he’s already left, m’lady.”

  “For breakfast?” She frowned. It seemed unlike him.

  “No, m’lady, he had his breakfast an hour ago. He left for London straight afterward.”

  “What?” Her jaw dropped.

  “Yes, m’lady.”

  Why go to London without even telling her? She could only think of one reason—that letter. Nell flung open the connecting door and hurried through. She searched but there was no sign of the letter. Nor was there a note from Harry explaining why he’d gone off without telling her.

  An ominous feeling grew inside her.

  She turned to the footman. “Take me to Mr. Gabriel Renfrew immediately.”

  “He’s in the—”

  “Please, just take me. And hurry.” She didn’t know the layout of the big house yet.

  They passed along the corridor, down the stairs, through several twists and turns until finally the man knocked, then threw open a door. “The breakfast parlor, m’lady.”

  Gabriel was about to sit down at the table, a plate of roast beef in his hand. His brothers, Nash and Marcus, had already started. At her entrance, they rose to their feet, as usual. She tried to catch her breath.

  “Lady Helen, what is it?” the earl asked.

  Nell looked at him, not quite sure how to begin. The preposterous idea in her head just kept growing.

  “Harry has gone to London,” she said.

  The earl nodded. “Yes, on business,” he said.

  She looked at Gabriel. “I don’t think so. I think—I think he might have gone to kill a man,” Nell said. It sounded so dramatic when she said it aloud. But every instinct she had told her he’d gone after Sir Irwin.

  “Why on earth would you think such a thing?” Gabriel asked her. “Here come and sit down. Have a cup of tea.”

  She allowed him to seat her and accepted the tea, but she didn’t drink it. “He’s been after this man for some time. He—he’s very angry with him.”

  “Yes, but you don’t go around killing people because you’re angry with them.”

  “No, but I think he might challenge this man to a duel.”

  There was a short silence. “A duel?” Gabriel’s gaze sharpened. “For what reason?”

  Nell swallowed. “Me.” She forced herself to meet their eyes. “It’s the man who—who—r-rap—”

  “We understand,” Nash said, cutting her off compassionately.

  “But if you’re right,” Gabriel said, “why didn’t he challenge this man before. Why wait till now?”

  “He didn’t know the man’s name until now. I refused to tell him. But I believe the information was in the letter he got yesterday. It would explain his tension afterward.”

  The men exchanged glances. “You might be right,” Gabe said. “I’ve never known him to challenge anyone to a duel, but over this, any man would.”

  “I don’t want him to fight Sir Irwin,” Nell said. “Please, you must go after him and stop him.”

  “We will,” Gabriel said. “But if it did come to a duel, he’s a very fine shot and a master with a sword. I’d back Harry against almost anyone in the country.”

  “There are laws against dueling,” the earl said. “I’m a magistrate.”

  “Exactly!” She wrung her hands in distress. “What happens if Harry kills Sir Irwin? I don’t want him to be hanged or transported or to have to flee the country as a fugitive from justice.” She loved him. She wanted to marry him and live at Firmin Court and breed horses and have babies with him.

  “We’ll take care of him, don’t worry,” Gabriel assured her. “What’s this villain’s name?”

  “Sir Irwin Clendinning.”

  “And where does he live?”

  She looked at him blankly. “Oh no!” she wailed. “I don’t know where he lives.”

  There was a short silence while they mulled over the problem.

  “Sir Irwin?” Nash said suddenly. “He’s a baronet.”

  She shook her head. “Yes, or a knight, what does it matter?”

  “Debrett’s,” Nash said. “He’ll be listed.” They raced to the library.

  The book lay open on a table. “Here it is,” the earl said. “Open at his entry. Harry must have looked him up, too.” He jotted down the address. “Right, let’s go.”

  “You?” Gabriel said in surprise.

  The earl gave him a cold look. “Yes. Why not?”

  “Oh please, just hurry,” Nell beseeched them, and they forgot their differences and went.

  Sir Irwin Clendinning’s house lay on the outskirts of London on the busy Great North Road. Wagons, coaches, and vehicles of all sorts rumbled nonstop past the house. Harry wondered how anyone could live in such a place. The din was frightful. But this was the address he’d been given.

  Harry rode in through the open gate. A chaise waited in the short driveway at the front of a slightly run-down house. A large, nattily dressed, sandy-haired man was about to climb into it: Sir Irwin?

  He edged Sabre in, ignoring the man’s oath of annoyance as he pushed the big horse between man and coach.

&n
bsp; “What the devil do you think you’re doing, sir?” Unlike his house, the man was very carefully maintained. The big bastard was something of a dandy. Harry imagined the man holding down Nell’s small body and cold rage roiled in him. But he couldn’t allow it to boil over. Not yet.

  “Sir Irwin Clendinning?” One needed to check that the swine was indeed the swine.

  “Indeed, and the owner of this property. Who the hell are you?”

  Harry swung down off Sabre. “Harry Morant.”

  Sir Irwin took in Harry’s dusty clothes and sniffed his disdain. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure,” he said dismissively and made to step around Harry. “Kindly get that creature off my property.”

  “Oh, it won’t be a pleasure,” Harry said with silky menace.

  “What the devil—”

  But that was all he had time for before Harry grabbed him by his very elegant coat. Practically lifting him from his feet.

  “Get off me, you—!”

  For answer Harry swung him around and smashed him against the door of the carriage. The coachman reacted, struggling to pull out an ancient rifle. Reluctantly Harry let go of Sir Irwin and dragged the man down. He went sprawling. A boot mid-rifle and the weapon was rendered useless.

  “This is a private matter between me and your master,”

  Harry growled to the coachman. “Get out and stay out if you value your life.”

  The horses plunged restlessly as the coachman hauled himself to his feet, took one fearful look at Harry’s face, and disappeared fast.

  Sir Irwin had the same idea. With savage invective he launched himself at Harry, trying to shove him aside and go the same way as his coachman.

  For answer Harry grabbed him by the neck and jammed him hard against the carriage. Sir Irwin struggled, kicking and shoving, but he was hanging like a man in manacles. They were much of a size, but Sir Irwin was no match for a man who’d spent years at war.

  “Help! Murder! Mohocks!” Sir Irwin yelled, but his voice was drowned by the sound of the traffic on the Great North Road.

  “I don’t think murder is on the agenda today. Just a gelding,” Harry said pleasantly and thumped him against the coach again.

  Sir Irwin turned a ghastly color. “G-geld—what do you mean?” His eyes flickered past Harry’s shoulder. “Get him!” he yelled.

  Two of the servants had come creeping up behind Harry. He dropped Sir Irwin, swinging a punch as he turned. He smashed his fist into the first man’s jaw and almost in the same movement sank another punch into the second one’s solar plexus.

  The first man staggered back, the other sank to his knees on the driveway, gasping for breath. Harry picked him up by the scruff of the neck and threw him on the lawn. Several other servants had gathered in the open doorway. He raised his fists invitingly. “Anyone else for a taste of home brewed?”

  They backed away as one. Obviously there were things that needed doing inside. Urgently. Domestic stuff.

  The door slammed closed. Sir Irwin was alone.

  A faint flash of light gave Harry warning. He swiveled, just in time to catch Sir Irwin’s arm as it started its murderous descent. A knife, thin and deadly . . .

  Harry grabbed the man’s arm and wrested the knife from him. Sir Irwin was fighting harder now, terror lending him strength, but years of campaigning had Harry’s muscles honed and ready. Sir Irwin’s life of indolence meant he could never come close to winning.

  “Knife in the back, eh?” Harry growled, twisting his arm and thrusting him backward with revulsion. “Swine. But I might find a use for it later.” He flung the knife down behind him so it stabbed deep into the lawn.

  “Rush him, you cowards, he’s not armed,” Sir Irwin yelled toward the closed door of the house. The door didn’t open. Only curtains twitching in the window embrasures said they were still observed.

  Enough. Harry grabbed him by his lapels, feeling revulsion gut deep. “Speaking of cowards,” he growled. “Where were we? Oh yes, let’s talk about women . . .”

  Sir Irwin’s eye narrowed. “Women? If some little whore has come running to you with her tales, she’s lying,” he blustered. “Happens all the time, some slut trying to trap me into marriage. I’m a man of substance.”

  “I’m talking about a lady.”

  Sir Irwin looked taken aback for a moment, then rallied. He tried to push Harry back. “Then you have the wrong man. I use sluts, the ones who are asking for it.”

  “Funny, I heard some of them fight.”

  Sir Irwin’s lip curled. “Some women like it rough. They just don’t like to admit it. Makes them embarrassed,” he said with a sneer.

  His teeth were very even. Like rats’ teeth, Harry thought. The man made him want to vomit.

  “Mutual pleasure. Can’t blame a man for that.”

  “And do you like it rough, too?” Harry asked silkily.

  “Sometimes,” he said warily. His knee jerked upward as he tried to knee Harry in the balls.

  Harry blocked the action with his hip. “You like it when they fight, don’t you?”

  For answer, Sir Irwin spat at him. As Harry’s head jerked back, Sir Irwin tried to gouge Harry’s eyes.

  Knocking the clawing fingers aside, Harry slammed a fist into Sir Irwin’s mouth. “So you do enjoy a fight,” he said softly. “Then let’s enjoy ourselves.”

  Like a pig on a spit the man struggled, spitting out a tooth and swearing horribly.

  “But you said you liked it rough. Changed your mind?”

  “Stop,” Sir Irwin wheezed. “Whoever she was, I’ll pay.”

  “Nonsense, this is for free.” Harry’s fist slammed into him again. “You told me you like it when they fight. Well, I’m fighting. It’s fun, isn’t it? Mutual pleasure. I’m certainly enjoying this.” He gripped him around the throat. “And now for the gelding . . . where’s that knife of yours?”

  Sir Irwin snarled and bucked. His thick fingers scrabbled at Harry’s wrists.

  “Stop, you fool, you can’t kill him!”

  For a moment Harry didn’t register who it was. His rage was all but overpowering him. Dammit, he almost felt capable of going ahead and gelding, not just threatening. To let this lowlife live . . .

  But it was Gabe, sweeping in the gate like a madman, shouting at the top of his lungs. The carriage horses reared and backed. Before Harry could respond he’d leapt from his horse and hauled Harry off Sir Irwin. Sir Irwin fell to his knees, gasping for breath, and Gabe hauled Harry away.

  “Get off me you idiot,” Harry snapped. “He’s not dead.”

  “Not yet, but—”

  More people poured in at the gate. Nash jumped off his horse, and grabbed Harry, too. And then—Harry blinked—of all people, Marcus.

  “What the hell?” He flung off his brothers’ restraining hands. “What the hell are you all doing here?” There were horses everywhere, servants opening the door again, passersby peering in at the gate. Sir Irwin, gasping for breath on the ground.

  “Saving you from yourself,” Gabe told him.

  Sir Irwin hauled himself to his feet, scrabbling toward the carriage door. Harry lunged toward him but Gabe held him back. “Let him be.”

  “Much as you’d like to—much as he deserves it—you can’t kill him,” Nash added.

  Harry stared at Nash as if he’d grown two heads. “I wasn’t planning to.”

  Nash gestured to Harry’s coat, which he now saw was covered with blood. “You’re giving a damned good impression of it.”

  Harry made a disgusted noise. “Diplomats! It’s just a little blood. I’m giving the swine the thrashing he deserves. And then I thought I’d geld him.”

  “Ware behind!” The shout from an unknown voice came from the steps.

  Harry and Gabe, acting on instincts honed by years at war, ducked and whirled at the same time. A ball whizzed past Harry’s ear. He heard an equine scream. Sabre reared and plunged. There was a thin line of blood on his horse’s flank.

  S
ir Irwin had a pistol in each hand. He dropped the one he’d fired and transferred the other to his right hand.

  “Where the hell did he get those?” Nash demanded, trying—to Harry’s disgust—to shove Harry behind him.

  “The carriage.” Marcus was already moving toward Sir Irwin as he pointed the pistol at Harry. “Put it down,” he commanded.

  Sir Irwin raised the second pistol and pointed it at Harry. “You’ve ruined my teeth, you bastard. I’m going to kill you for that.”

  “You’ll swing if you do,” Marcus told him.

  Sir Irwin’s eyes flickered. “I was attacked for no reason. I have witnesses.”

  “I am the Earl of Alverleigh and a magistrate,” Marcus said. “If you pull that trigger, I promise you, you’ll swing.”

  “And before you swing, my brothers will geld you,” Harry said.

  The pistol wavered. “B-brothers?” Looking wildly from one to the other, Sir Irwin began to back away. “You won’t get me, you won’t. Stay back, stay back all of you.” With the pistol trained on them he stumbled backward.

  “I’m not letting him get away,” Harry snarled and made a dive in his direction. Sir Irwin cursed and the pistol went off.

  “Harry!” Gabe yelled.

  Harry shook himself. “The bastard missed.”

  Sir Irwin shot out into the road. Harry raced after him.

  There was a loud noise and an almighty scream.

  “What the hell?” Harry skidded to a halt. A heavy coach was skewed across the road, the horses plunging and rearing. Harry dived for the leaders’ heads, dragging them down, uttering soothing noises.

  Gabe joined him in a flash and between them they managed to calm the horses. “What the hell happened?” he asked the coachman as soon as the horses were under control.

  “It weren’t my fault, sir,” the coachman explained. “I never seen him coming. He just run out into the road. Is he dead?”

  They looked. Sir Irwin lay still and glassy-eyed in the road, the lower half of his body a crushed mess. Dead indeed.

  And gelded to boot. Poetic justice, thought Harry as he surveyed the mangled mess. He hadn’t planned for the man to die but now he had . . . Nell would never have to risk running into the bastard again.